Soif de Sang
by petitebelette
Summary: Set in the 1930s. Fueled by guilt and self-hatred, Edward leaves Carlisle and Esme to hunt the darkest creatures of humanity: murderers, rapists, thieves, criminals. But what happens when one of their victims calls to him on a whole other level?
1. Chapter 1

**soif de sang **- chapter 1

**Fandom:** Twilight

**Characters:** Edward/Bella

**Rating:** M, for blood, violence, etc.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

**Author's Notes:** This fic is AU with vamps and werewolves.

It's set over the time period that Edward left Carlisle and Esme to hunt people. It's dark, it's angsty, it's ~Edward Cullen~. ;) Some other things are different, and they'll become clearer with time.

* * *

He used to have green eyes.

He used to play in this small garden with a little girl – her name was Viola, and she had long curls down to her waist, chubby cheeks, and a tinkling giggle. They played games under a spring sun with muddied pastel-colored clothes. Viola liked to be the pirate, and she would swish around a stick and stomp on flowers, making guttural pirate noises.

He didn't mind being the captive.

When they got older, when Viola's cheeks weren't as chubby, they'd lay in the dewy grass until their mothers called them inside, chastising them as always about grass stains. They'd laugh and pretend to do schoolwork, exchanging little peeks from their scales.

Sometimes they'd go for a walk, and sometimes they'd hold hands on a quiet road. Viola would blush when their skin met and he'd kiss her cheek lightly.

One day when he was finishing his arithmetic and she was studying French, he'd leaned in and kissed her pink lips. He could still remember the taste – that warm puff of air he'd stolen from her mouth.

When they parted, Viola had smiled and placed her hand upon his. "Edward," she'd said with a shaky sigh. "Edward, I can hardly think when you look at me like that."

He wondered what Viola would think of him now.

His eyes weren't green anymore, and he wondered if Viola would be too stricken with fear to think at all.

He scoffed, because Viola couldn't think anything – she was dead.

Edward knew she had been dead long before his father had died. Before his mother had died. Before he had died.

Someone placed a mug beside his hand. He smelled a whiff of human sweat and jasmine – it tickled his nose and his mouth filled with venom, but he only curled a hand around the glass, not looking away from the mirror embedded above the old chipped counter to his left. Only two things obscured the image of his snowy-white pallor and inky black pupils – the dirt clinging to the reflective surface and his slow blinking eyelashes. Everything was slow before the kill.

He'd been listening to a man for the past hour, his rancid thoughts congested in a smoky bar – illegal, of course, hidden underneath a barber shop. Prohibition was in full swing and even Edward, usually disinterested and apathetic about the prattle of human events, knew of it. It was hard to avoid – especially when alcohol-tainted blood more often than not stained his tongue.

This man was swinging home-brewed beer down his throat, and Edward watched him from a table, his own drink untouched. As far as beverages went, Edward had never been partial to the drugging kind, even as a man.

Besides, he'd get a taste of it soon enough.

_Piss water, that's what this tastes like,_ the man grumbled to himself.

_Letting in scum like Gordon is bad for business_, the bartender was thinking, beady eyes watching Edward's prey. _Who knows the pigs he talks to-_

_-have to find a new place. Maybe Annie's, that little wench. Pretty piece of ass her daughter is. What I would give-_

The side of Edward's mouth twitched; his eyes flashed in the dull lighting.

Gordon stumbled up from his seat, belching loudly. He gave too much money to the bartender on the way out, his thoughts flitting from finding his friends to finding a warm whore. He left the room, the building. Edward rose and followed him out. No one asked him to pay.

The cold hit his upturned face as he strolled into the thick night. The streets were lined with old lamps, the gritty glass muffling the licking fires. There was no moon and the shadows were dark and deep, but Edward could see. He could see Gordon, who worked construction and spent every last dime on empty comforts, weaving an uneven path down the street.

He followed, confident the fat old man wouldn't take notice of him – he hadn't taken notice all night, not since Edward had spotted him sneaking into the forbidden establishment, thinking greasy thoughts.

Construction, indeed.

Edward smiled, but not out of amusement, as the drunk stopped at a seedy looking motel, slipping the bellhop clinking change. The man had obviously chosen finding a whore.

He could smell the heady scent of blood inside; the rush of pumping crimson seemed to assail his senses. He'd have to wait until the horny bastard came out to drink his fill, unless he felt like a large supper – for two, he thought grimly – this evening.

With a near sigh he slunk past the building and into the neighboring alleyway, blending into the shadowed brick.

He knew when Gordon was in his usual room and stopped paying attention. He didn't need to loose his appetite so soon into the hunt.

Edward closed his eyes and buried his chilly hands into his pockets. For the moment he tried to remember what it was like to be warm. He tried to remember his mother, and his home. He tried to remember Viola's tinkling giggle, but it had been so long and he felt so detached from those memories, from that time. He felt as if it had all happened a century ago – no, like it had happened to a different person, some poor boy's life he had read about in some sad book.

Seventeen going on thirty took on a whole new meaning for Edward.

Gordon was leaving the building, tucking his cotton shirt in.

He was content and his blood was warm and flooding his veins. Edward knew that in a few hours Gordon had plans and a switchblade to slit a man's throat, and Gordon wasn't worried about it. The man's name was Sawicki and he was more than willing to end some Pollack's life for a sum of money.

Edward was too fast as Gordon passed the tight alleyway.

The man didn't have time to scream, only a gurgle erupting from his lips as sharp teeth tore at his jugular, blood flooding his lungs.

Edward drank in long, gulping drags, lapping up the intoxicating blood with a greedy hunger.

He snapped the man's neck before leaving him there, just to make sure he was dead.

* * *

He'd been alone for two years, one month, and five days.

He wasn't keeping a count or a tally on his bedpost, because he didn't have one. But the day's newspaper was strewn across a homeless man on a rickety bench and his sharp red eyes couldn't help but catch it, his able mind doing the necessary math.

The number didn't hurt – after all, it was just a number – but instead of hurting, it made him feel empty. If Edward were honest with himself, he'd realize he felt lonely, but these days Edward was hardly ever honest with himself.

It was snowing lightly in the small market and Edward bent his purple lips into his scarf, acting like the icy winter air bothered him. A woman and her children ran around his legs. One small girl was lagging behind, and she had braids in her hair, her tongue licking the falling crystals. Her eyes caught his and her jaw went slack, her little breath caught. She was scared and her face was flushed prettily.

He clenched his teeth together and pushed past her.

The next few meters he strode too fast, tongue darting out to lick his dry polished lips.

A little girl.

She was a little girl, and he knew she would taste sweet, a warm treat on such a cold day.

A growl left his chest and he darted faster onto another less crowded road. She was a little girl with a mother who would miss her. He imagined the lady he'd just seen finding her dead little child, tears stroking her withered face. Edward held onto the image, because unlike that harmless number – two years, one month, five days – this image _hurt_. It clawed at him and subdued his salivating mouth, ridding him of any other thought besides: _I'm a monster._

He was a monster. He'd killed. He'd fed.

That taste of hot human blood was an addicting burn on his tongue.

There was no forgiveness for the things he'd done. There was no reprieve. There was only gripping hell that reaped its vengeance. It was his only comfort, his only pain. He reveled in it, embraced it.

Edward slowed as he reached the park, narrowing his eyes to the bright white sky. The child's imagined taste was but a whisper, and her scent was but a memory. He stopped in the snow, breathing in ice, in blood and human stink. Had it truly been over two years? Had his life become _this_? This constant struggle, this eternity of punishment, this god-complex of picking who was to die? Did it make him more of a monster – he, who had a conscience to _choose_ who deserved death – than a disgusting thirst-driven savage?

Did it matter? In the end, in the twilight of night before the kill, in the satiated dawn, did it matter if he'd drank a murderer dry or an innocent child?

He wanted to believe that this was true, that it did matter. But nothing could assuage the hatred coursing through him, intensifying to the peak of wrath. It did not matter. Murder was murder, and he'd signed that deal with the devil a long time ago.

_Two years, one month, and five days ago._

_

* * *

  
_

The thought had been festering in his mind, tantalizing the corners of his thoughts. It was only now, in full gaze of his hated reflection, in the ruby-tinted color of his eyes, that he saw it clearly.

It hadn't taken long to track down scum that night, hadn't taken long at all to find prey to drain dry, to find some poor fortunate victim to save. Under the silver light of the moon he'd tore into a fresh meal, letting the warm heady liquid warm his insides, letting the taste wash over him. It wasn't until he dropped the body onto the cold ground that he'd seen the girl's eyes, those frightful orbs gleaming in the darkness.

She didn't scream, but he could hear her ragged breathing, the rabid pulse of her heartbeat, that thrumming that beckoned his appetite. She'd stared, terrified, frozen, clutching at her ripped clothing and her exposed throat simultaneously. Her dark hair flowed across her shoulders like waves of silk, her wide brown eyes stricken and beautiful. He'd seen it there.

It lurked beneath his chilling red irises. The demon, lapping at his insides, and nothing else more.

Monster. Murderer. It was all the same. He was not human, and he hadn't been for decades. Where was his humanity in that hard killing gaze, his isoul/i?

Had the blood washed it away, had every thoughtless and vicious death he'd inflicted devoured it? What was he, if not but a soulless demon? If not a damned killer? Was there anything left of his humanity?

He'd left her there to weep, striding into the slushy street with quick footfalls, coalescing into the night like a phantom, like the shadowed creature he was. He'd latched onto her panicked thoughts, her cries of terror. They echoed in his mind and numbed the world around him.

She still whispered to him as he stared into his own feral eyes, serenading him with the frivolity of awe and pain, of consuming fear. Edward dropped his gaze to the heat of candles, his face bathed in their soft yellow glow. Each flame was a pinpoint of beautiful warm light, of shapes of melted clear wax and red glass holders.

He hadn't been in a church since he was one of them, since he had a heart that still pumped blood. Since he had a reason to breathe besides out of convenience and habit.

It was wrong to be here. It was blasphemous; it was an affront to taint the house of God. Edward knew well enough the evil that was in everyone, the forbidden thoughts each person indulged in. He knew of the monster inside of himself. He knew he did not belong here; he was not pure or wholesome. If Edward had an end, there would be no forgiveness for him. He'd have much awaiting him after Judgment Day.

His jaw tightened, and he lit three candles with a steady and sure hand, each one blazing to life. One for his mother, his father. One for his own soul.

His soft grim laughter echoed in the wide space, the dark amusement filtering as he mentally witnessed the girl stumbling home into the dangerous night, her thoughts frantic, and her heart in the pit of her stomach.

Something painful gripped him, that feeling of guilt he was so accustomed to. He should not left her there, not alone and frightened. He should not have fed in front of a human, should not have been so reckless, so foolish, so stupid.

Yet lately Edward had been anything but sensible.

Her feet were cold, and she was gasping into numbing fingers. She wanted desperately to return home, to be with her family. Her mind had not yet processed what had happened to her, only that the terror was driving her further and further from the dead seeping body of her attacker. She was vowing never to sneak out again.

Edward listened carefully to each word, still with concentration.

Would she bury this night into the recesses of her mind? Would she choose to forget her demonic savior, never to cry wolf – or rather – vampire? She must know that no one would believe her. She'd be sent to an asylum, locked up in those disgusting and inhumane houses without a second thought.

He cursed his thoughtlessness with a hiss, frowning as his venturing footfalls brought him out into the freezing night once again, into the welcoming darkness. Anger – for himself, for his recklessness – filled him with violence. He could not help her. He'd saved her life, but he'd also exposed himself as the monster he was, and now she would have deal with those gruesome images.

Growling, he blurred past buildings, down alleyways, trying to pinpoint her location – for what means, he did not know clearly. If anything, knowing she arrived safely at home would assuage the worry he felt, lessen his guilt. Fill him with some sort of grim peace.

Soon enough, he found her, saw her path super-imposed on his. She was home and he could see her from the corner, scrapping her little fragile knees and shins as she climbed inside a low-hanging window. The sweet fragrance of her blood hit him on a breeze; he heard the rapid beating of her small fluttering heart, that blood-filled organ that beckoned the rush of venom into his mouth.

He hissed out of desire, out of disgust for himself and walked forward, licking his already red lips. He heard the muffled thump as she hit the floor, felt a surge of lust at her thoughts. She smelled the blood, was sickened by it, saw the image of her bruised skin in his mind through hers. She smelled unlike anything he had ever smelled before, like perfection, like a delicious meal sent to tempt him by the devil himself.

_He wanted her_. All of her, every drop. He _needed_ to taste her, to drain her dry, and he was going to.

He knew it, he felt it in his bones, in the lust gripping him and driving him to a horrible beautiful madness.

She left her window open. Not that it mattered. Stupid, silly girl.

Easily he slipped inside, the devil inside him snapping its jaws, his crimson eyes growing wide at the smell of her ieverywhere/i. Everywhere, dripping off of every surface. He stood still in anticipation, locking his gaze on her back – she'd stumbled to her vanity, hands shaking as she searched for gauze and medicine, but it didn't matter.

She was dead. She was _his_.

He took a step forward; preparing to lunge, to encircle her in his cold embrace, hand over her mouth to stop her inevitable scream. He couldn't kill her – the useless struggle she'd make would mean something to him later, would weigh down on his conscience, but for now he wanted her blood hot, infused with irresistible terror that would taste even sweeter. He'd take what was his, take it all, every drop, every drop.

But she turned around, her pretty eyes rounding in surprise, lips parting – and then she was against the wall, pressed down by his hard body, her scream smothered by his hand. Her thoughts raced, he saw them reflected in her brown orbs. _I don't want to die I don't want to die I'm going to die no please no. _Sickened, he stopped listening, leaning into her and hearing her little ribs snap, smelling the salt of her answering tears, his body reacting to her pained whimper. He hissed, angry, wrathful, full of insatiable rage at his thirst, at his loneliness, at himself for what he was about to do.

He pushed her head to the side, careful not to break it, exposing the pale skin of her neck. He breathed her in, venom bursting double-fold into his mouth, the small lines of her capillaries and her thick arterial pulse detectable by his sharp gaze.

_Oh God, oh please no. Oh please. This isn't happening. I thought I was saved-_

"_Shut. Up_!" The growl left him, his hand leaving her mouth for her neck, pushing her up on her toes.

Her tear-soaked face was in a grimace and she choked, little hands fisting the jacket at his shoulders, pulling and pushing and doing nothing. "Please don't." Her voice shuddered, was spat on tiny gasps.

There was something in her eyes, something innocent and terrified, and he saw himself through her: a monster that looked like a man.

He gasped; he sucked in her scent and stumbled back, letting her fragile human form fall in a heap to the floor. She coughed and sputtered, crawling away from him and into a corner like an injured, frightened animal.

Edward watched her, lungs heaving with effort, taking in her perfect scent and wanting it even as if felt his revulsion amplify, turn into something dark and loathing.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry."

Her mind was oddly quiet, her thoughts subdued. Shock, he realized. She was in shock.

He stepped towards her, unnaturally fast, and she jerked against the wall, unable to move further away. She kicked and fought as he scooped her up but didn't cry out, her voice strained beneath her panicked breaths.

He lied her out on her small, rickety bed, the covers mused and blue. Gently, he felt the broken curve of her ribs, the indentation, locking his eyes with hers. She wheezed on every inhale, every exhale accompanied with a painful sob, looking up at him in fright and confusion and agony.

Edward knew what he had to do, looking down at her broken body, his thirst reigned.

Swiftly, carefully, he picked her up again and ran.

* * *

He was watching her sleep.

Her dreams were vivid. Full of him, of terror and of prophesy. Full of nightmares that ate away at her tentative rest.

The drapes were drawn; he was sitting in a far pitch-black corner and not breathing, never breathing, although the smell of her was still on his tongue, promising pleasure he never would deserve in his long existence.

He'd set her ribs the best he could, placed her in an unused bed in an unused room in an empty house. One of Carlisle's, one the family owned in case Seattle seemed like a good destination one day, as it had decades before.

There was no way he could let her leave, not now. Not after he'd killed in front of her. Not after he'd almost taken her blood, only to find himself before that final strike. Not after he'd chosen to care for her out of guilt.

She murmured something soft in her sleep and shifted, pain shooting across her features. He was mesmerized. He was afraid. She was so small and pretty, like a porcelain doll, and her blood called to him like a siren.

She should be dead, he thought. This innocent, beautiful, stupid girl.

Her eyelids fluttered, her thoughts clearing, becoming ever lucid. Edward froze and watched as she rose to sit with much discomfort, her heart beating like a rabbit, and its calm pace doubling.

_Where am I?_

"You're safe," he answered, and her blind eyes searched for him.

He stood and walked into a greyer light, lips twisting into a knowing humorless smile as she recoiled.

"I won't hurt you," he promised. "What is your name?"

_Isabella Swan. _"Bella," she answered, voice trembling. He stepped closer and she went rigid, her eyes unable to leave his. _He's so beautiful_, was what she thought and Edward only felt laughter raising in his throat.

Stupid, silly girl. Even after he'd nearly murdered her, his face did not turn her away.

"My name is Edward," he offered.

There was silence, or at least that was what she heard – a thick horrible silence, her predator's eyes probing hers, black with a thirst he couldn't control.

_But Edward could only hear __her, listening intently to every reaction._

_Where am I? He almost killed me. Where did he take me? What's he going to do with me?_

_But he stopped. He didn't kill me. That's not to say he_ won't later_, Bella. Think, will you? Think, you have to get out of here before you end up a meal._

_Why didn't he kill me? He's a vampire. He could have killed me so easily. This isn't like Jacob said._

The last thought made him pause, stirred an undeniable curiosity.

Slowly, he walked to the edge of the bed, stilling the stream of her consciousness. He gritted his teeth in frustration but came closer to perch at her feet, eyes never leaving her draining face.

"I won't hurt you, Bella," he said soothingly, but he was not sure if he could keep such a promise. "I lost control before. It will not happen again."

She didn't believe him – or she didn't want to, she wasn't sure.

"You hurt that man," she argued, a flash of her attacker running through her mind.

"I needed to eat," he explained carefully. "I saved your life."

"You broke my ribs."

"But I did not kill you."

Her lips pressed together, the pink of them turning white. "I want to go home," she breathed the request, lashes fluttering.

_He's not going to let me go._

"I can't do that, Bella," he said in a low voice.

"I won't say anything." Her heart was speeding up again, a deafening thump that roused his thirst.

_I have to find a way out and Jacob will come looking for me._

Edward saw Jacob then: a broad-shouldered man with a wide smile, his being stretching and contorting and bursting into – Edward hissed under his breath, panic filling his chest, and the sound made Bella flinch and back up into the headboard.

"_You cannot leave_," he ordered, raising to his feet and towering over her.

_Now_ there was no way.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**soif de sang** - chapter 2

**Fandom:** Twilight

**Characters: **Edward/Bella

**Rating:** M, for blood, violence, etc.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

**Author's Notes: **This fic is AU with vamps and werewolves.

It's set over the time period that Edward left Carlisle and Esme to hunt people. It's dark, it's angsty, it's ~Edward Cullen~. ;) Some other things are different, and they'll become clearer with time.

Thank you for the reviews!! All the story alert notices kinda put a skip in my step. XD

* * *

He was beautiful.

Just like she knew vampires were: cold, hard and beautiful, like marble statues, crafted and smoothed, not a blemish or imperfection marring their visage.

He nearly killed her.

Bella swallowed down, past the dryness of her throat, the constant ache in her torso proof of her memories.

She watched, hypnotized, as he stared blankly at the book in his hands. He hadn't moved in hours, not even to turn the page, his ruby-red pupils glaring into the darkness.

Frighteningly beautiful.

Bella looked away, shaking her head of those thoughts, reminding herself why they were so beautiful. To lure, to trap. To devour with little fight.

She felt a sting of tears filling her eyes, fear bursting forth. He wanted to kill her, and she didn't see what was stopping him now, what had stopped him then. Jacob had told her stories – stories of vampires who were smart and not rabid, vampires who delighted in torture and mind-games.

Was Edward playing with her mind? Making her believe she was safe, albeit imprisoned, only to rip her throat out later?

He'd seemed rabid – crazy with bloodlust, his eyes hungry, and the smell of his last meal still reeking on his sweet breath.

But now he was calm, the sharp turns of his limbs and chest immobile, and only his strong jaw tense, cast in the shadow of a yellow lamp. She wanted to know; she needed to know what he was thinking, if he was going to hurt her, kill her.

Her chances were slim. So slim, nearly non-existent that she'd leave this room alive.

But he'd have to leave. He'd have to feed, if he wasn't going to gorge himself on her, like he promised. Could she escape then?

She turned back to him helplessly, as if by seeing him her questions would be answered, but instead she felt her heart jump into her throat at the sight of his piercing eyes staring straight at her.

Her breath caught; her heart sped. How long would he wait before going in for the kill?

"Bella," he said in a whisper, and she shivered at the melody of his voice, his fooling seductive tones. "Are you comfortable? Tell me if you are hungry."

Her brow creased, lips parting to twist up in incredulity. He had to be kidding, and he answered her disbelieving thought with a small crooked smirk.

"I told you I wasn't going to hurt you," he reminded her. "I think that would imply I wouldn't starve you, either."

"Why are you keeping me here?" she asked, unable to hold the questions back now that the silence had broken, even if his answer was a lie.

His expression didn't changed save a hardening around his eyes, and Bella was pinned by his frozen chilling smile. "You know too much, Bella. You have _friends_ that would be all too interested in revenge for what I've done to you."

For a moment, she thought she was going to be sick. There was no way he could know – was there?

"What you're _going_ to do to me?" Her voice wavered; her fingers clasped the bed sheets tighter.

"I'm not going to _hurt_ you, you silly girl," he repeated, but there was an inflection of impatience in his voice this time, and his lips had fallen into a frown. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

"I have no idea what you mean by 'friends'," she added.

Edward simply smiled, stretching his lips and closing the book he hadn't read a word of, so far as she could tell. "Yes, Bella, you do." With that, he stood, making his way to her side.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins and she pushed herself up, letting out a small cry at the ache of pain turning sharp, like knives. Suddenly he was by her side, his cool honeyed breath against her cheek and strong, lean fingers pulling her gently and easily into a sitting position.

"Will you stop trying to hurt yourself," he growled, gripping her shoulder and keeping her still. He became very quiet, too quiet. She felt rather then heard his mouth open, and the hungry inhale he took.

She shuddered, hearing her own heart thud in her ears, gaze stricken on the nape of his neck, how his dark reddish-brown locks met his collar.

"Do you know how good you smell to me?" he murmured, so low she wasn't sure she heard it.

She gasped in fright and anticipation, shivered and choked on her exhales. _Don't don't don't don't_, her mind screamed, pleaded. She blinked and tears wet her cheeks.

"You're like a fountain in the desert." His voice rumbled on a soft snarl. Her chest heaved, her vision blurring; she felt the soft brush of cold lips on her pulse and tensed, hands shooting up to push him away on instinct. But there they were already, long fingers wrapping around her wrists, squeezing hard enough to elicit a whimper.

She recoiled, shoulders rolling in as his nose nudged the column of her neck with his mouth.

"I'll stop trying to hurt myself," she promised, desperate to distract him, straining and breaking just above a whisper.

"Good," he agreed through clenched teeth, hovering with indecision before pulling back, his eyes half-lidded and black—pitch-black, so deep and dark they were endless abysses—eyes that were trained on her. "I don't want to hurt you." The words were slow and careful, and she almost believed them—almost—and nodded anyway, hypnotized and deathly afraid.

He straightened, his grip loosening enough for blood to rush to her fingertips, but not enough to let her go.

_I won't die here,_ she thought with finality, with a grim determination as she gazed up into his hungry troubled expression, the air charged and ripping through her mercilessly._ I won't die._

_

* * *

  
_

Leaving that small stifling room, thick with her scent and her fragile little body did nothing to rid the sweet aroma of her blood from his tongue, did nothing to take away the feel of her thin breakable skin from his lips.

He was torturing himself.

He knew it as he stalked the night in gluttonous hunger, keeping that last inhale of her maddening perfume deep in his lungs.

Helpless. She was helpless and injured and trapped and so easy to take, to rip open and taste. Devour. She only had a small idea of what kind of danger she was in, how close he had been, sitting so still and so tempted in that room.

He was testing himself. Was there a difference?

He followed the thoughts of a rapist, a killer, a low-life nothing, a piece of scum that was thinking dirty vile thoughts of his most recent victim. Edward bared his teeth, unable to suppress the low growl that accompanied the man's raucous laughter; he turned off from his friends to stumble blindly home, sated and pleased with himself.

Every night he dealt justice like some fallen angel, some god-like creature when he was anything but. As he reached for the man, tearing his scalp back by the hair, silencing his shout by sinking his teeth into a bare jugular, crushing a flimsy windpipe into nothing but tangled tissue, Edward couldn't have felt more monstrous.

There was no difference between him and this filth.

Blood, hot and heavy, poured into his mouth, feeding his hunger but not sating his thirst. He drank in long draws, letting the spray of the man's dying blood fill his eyes with red. He drank until the body was drained, empty, and his grip crushed the bones beneath his hands into powder.

The corpse fell to the ground with a thud.

He felt sick, crippled inside.

In all his years, he'd never seen a reflection of himself in the trash he killed. He didn't know why not, he thought now, bitterly, staring down in repugnance, in self-horror at the monster at his feet.

Edward licked his lips, brought his hand up to wipe the remains of his meal from his stained chin.

He'd take her. He nearly did, pushing her against that wall, crazy with bloodlust and desire. It was no different than this dead vile creature, already decaying at his toes.

It hurt this time, crushing down on him like pain mixed with guilt and remorse and nausea.

_Bella_, his mind whispered to him, the remembrance of her scared brown eyes and soft skin enough to flood his mouth with venom.

He needed to feed again. Again and again, until he was sure.

Until he could handle her presence, until he could figure out what to do—so close to Carlisle, so close to his old family's new life, so close to those _dogs_ Bella knew.

And he knew Carlisle was close—of course he did. Knowing that wretched heavenly scent, nearly tasting that elixir of innocent blood was slowly and carefully uncovering each thin transparent veil from his eyes.

He closed them and leaned against the alley wall, sucking in a breath of death and flesh and human stink, all mixed with the cold knives of winter air.

He knew when he came to Seattle, unquestionably veering closer to his surrogate father in hopes of what? Of returning—flirting with the idea, even though the only fate Edward deserved was one of loneliness and suffering—hell. Not the acceptance and love and patience that Carlisle would offer.

Not the salvation, however small.

Carlisle didn't deserve a monster for a son. He didn't deserve Edward to return with blood on his hands, to put him in a position that would surely get him killed.

His fists closed and he exhaled.

He needed to feed.

* * *

There was no way out.

Bella sunk to the floor, one hand gripping the iron bars of the window, nails scratching helplessly at thick glass. The cold of winter seeped into her fingertips.

She gasped on a sob, knees colliding with the floor. She was surrounded by forest, away from the city—she could see the lights of Seattle in the distance, and she was trapped inside.

Maniacally she began to laugh, the heaving pushing her ribs out painfully.

The door was bolted. The windows were barred. She was on the third floor and away from civilization, from any savior or saving grace.

Hot salty tears fell into the groves of her lips and she cried harder, wheezing as she clutched at her chest, folding in on herself. That flare of determination she felt earlier, that piece of hope, died.

Her soft cries burned her throat, stabbed at her eyes, panic setting in. She wanted to be home. She needed to be home, with her mother, with her dad, safe in her bed and unharmed, untouched. She wanted to be with Jacob.

She was stupid, so stupid. For going out to prove a point, for disobeying a rule to live some life she should have shied away from, trouble she should have avoided.

Weary, scared, broken, she fell forward, resting her head on the windowsill, gripping harder at her sides as if her embrace could ward off the stabbing pain.

She didn't know how long she lied there after sinking down onto the floor, or how long she cried, cheek pressed against the cool floor. She didn't know, only let the tide of her tears wan, exhaustion pulling her under. She let dreams take her away.

* * *

Her hair was soft beneath his fingertips. The apple of her cheek was smooth, a warm cushion against his cool hard fingers.

Her breath came in little painful gasps, every thread of her eyelashes fluttering with dreams, crisscrossing and kissing her cheeks. Carefully, he moved closer, moving her chestnut hair from her small face, her bangs rebelliously falling back to her forehead.

The violence he had wrought, the mangled bodies he had left behind paled in comparison to the quiet desperation he had come home to. The quiet desperation of her struggling breaths, her ribs pressed against the floor, the scent of salty tears dried on her cheeks.

He wasn't a monster for only killing, for wanting to kill—he was a monster for this.

The corner of his lips turned up sadly and he bent ever closer, carefully sliding his arm beneath her resting body. Strands of her brown tickled his nose as he shifting her up into his arms, her precious blood beckoning his attention beneath the curtain of her hair. The smell of it itched the back of his throat, awakened the rabid monster inside of him, and he swallowed back a mouthful of venom.

She made a sound, a sleepy whimper, forehead lolling onto his shoulder, heavy arms moving to clutch at his shoulders.

He froze; something lodged in his throat, a new emotion choking him, a new emotion that tamed his thirst like a loving touch could sooth a wild animal.

She murmured something, breathing against his collarbone, the warmth enough to close his eyes in appreciation. "Silly girl." His voice wavered at her unknown, unintended affection, yet he didn't want her to wake up.

He cursed himself for prolonging the moment, reaching to scoop up her legs. He felt her eyes open against his skin, her hoarse low voice asking, "Jacob?"

He gritted his teeth as the image of the dog touched his mind through hers. "Shh, Bella," he whispered, and she tensed, her quiet thoughts jolting to a pitching scream.

She wretched away from him, head colliding hard with the window. He let her go, afraid of his strength if he were to keep her. Her eyes, frantic and wide, searched his face, the room, unmindful of the unexplainable agony that was ripping through him.

"Stay away from me!" she shouted, eyes flicking once again over his shoulder.

_The door_, was all she thought, but it was enough for Edward to know what she was about to do.

She scrambled up and he hissed, arm already wrapping around her waist as he stood with her.

She folded against his embrace, a loud whoosh of air escaping her as his arm knocked the wind out of her. Yet that did not stop her—she merely choked and fought, nails scratching futilely at his arms, tears falling, limbs flailing.

"No!" she screeched finally, when she could breathe. "No! No! Let me go!"

"Be still, Bella," he ordered. Her ineffectual attempts to escape him did not hurt him, but he could feel each struggle right down to his core, as if they were each squeezing his dead heart.

"No, _please_!" she reached for the ajar door helplessly, hopelessly, eyes straining to see the staircase beyond it. "I won't tell anyone, please. I won't say anything, please. God, please don't…" She let out a sound that dug shards into that black organ in his chest; she fell forward as the sobs took her over. "Don't keep me here," she cried out, defeat pouring into her voice before she succumbed.

"Shh," he soothed her, taking her shoulder and lifting her upright against him. Life entered her again and she tried to jerk away to no avail. "Bella," he said her name, over and over and over again until she quieted, until her tears dried and she was limp, leaning away from him.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked in a whisper, eyes unseeingly on the ground.

Edward couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. Carefully, one arm securely around her, he shut the door and locked it, pocketing the key with inhuman speed.

"Bella," he repeated breathlessly, as if it was the only word he could remember. For the moment, it was—those easy syllables rolling off his tongue, sweet and simple.

Gently, he turned her around in his arms and she let him, little hands pushing him halfheartedly away, and her lifeless eyes glassy and stricken to his neck. The only thing she was thinking over and over was, _I'm never going to get out._

"Bella…" He could hear the fright in her name, the confusion, and the desire for the life pumping through her veins.

Her pupils dilated, her chin rose. She met his ruby eyes and did not flinch.

Her lips were dry and she was swooning, her warm body swaying in his arms. That same emotion filled him, softened the jagged contours of his face.

_He looks so sad_, she thought serenely.

It made him feel sadder.

"Bella," he choked out. "I'm going to leave now. I'm going to get you food and water," he promised. "Please, stay here." It was ludicrous, the request. It was insulting.

She laughed, a humorless sardonic chuckle that turned into a cough, her fingers curling into his shirt.

"Yes," she agreed after it had passed, more tears leaking from her eyes, eyes that were looking over his shoulder. "I'll stay."

_I'll give in._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**soif de sang** - chapter 3

**Fandom: **Twilight

**Characters:** Edward/Bella

**Rating: **M, for blood, violence, etc.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

* * *

She dreamt of nothing. She dreamt of everything.

She dreamt of green and rain, of La Push. She dreamt of Forks. She dreamt of sun filtering through emerald leaves. She could almost smell the damp foliage. There was laughter. Beauty. Love.

She woke slowly, unwilling to surface from unconsciousness—she didn't know why in that hazy lull there was panic and dread in the action, so she held on a little longer.

She dreamt of Jacob. Sweet, warm Jacob and his comforting smiles.

* * *

There was food by the table in the morning: eggs and toast and pancakes in heaping amounts.

Her stomach growled and rolled, intense hunger and nausea greeting her consciousness. Dryly, she licked her lips, noting the two large glasses of water beside the carefully placed dish.

She didn't want to move from the warm hole her body had dug in the covers, didn't want to wake from her dreams.

"I wasn't sure what you preferred," said a silky voice, hidden somewhere in the corners of the room.

Bella shot up, clutching the sheet tighter.

Red eyes glinted in the sparse light, his frown directed at the floor. He stood stoically behind the armchair, which Bella noted was draped in clothes—pretty dresses and shoes. The nausea clenched tighter; she felt a surge of bile in her throat.

"I hope this is all suitable for you." His voice was monotone, mechanical, but still beautiful. "There is a washing room to your left. I do not know if you had discovered it yet." She had, of course. When she had been searching for a way out. "I did not want to wake you when I had returned. You looked very peaceful. I-"

He paused, as if something unbearable had just occurred to him. Bella brought the snug covers up to her chest, watching the crease in his forehead with interest, fighting down the acidic coughs that grated her throat.

"I waited until morning," he finally finished. "There are books to browse at your leisure," he continued in a stream as if nothing had broken his speech. "Unfortunately, there is not much else… I do own a phonograph, however, if you'd like to listen to music."

There was silence as she studied him, wide eyes unable to leave his brooding face. She didn't understand anything, not any of it—why he was trying to make her comfortable and what his motives were behind it. Why he had brought her clothes and food, why he had not interrupted her slumber, and—god help her—thought she looked peaceful, the mere comment sending a chill down her spine.

She was being cared for, watched over by a vampire.

"Please, if you desire anything else, do not hesitate to call my name," he added. "Although the house is considerably large, I will be able to hear you."

"Will you let me go?" she blurted out in a small voice. "Will you kill me?"

His lashes lifted, and she was struck full-force by the molten simmering red of his eyes, that inhumane hue that stiffened her spine.

"I will do neither," he answered.

"Please tell me," she beseeched carefully, "why you are keeping me hostage?"

He stared at her steadily for a moment, and she wanted to look away but couldn't, found that she was as trapped by his gaze as she was the room.

He walked around the chair and she brought her knees up to her chest, felt her heart speeding at his nearing proximity. He paused minutely at her reaction, expression going blank. "Why should I tell you, Bella, when you would not believe a monster like me?" He took another step closer, fingers brushing against the sheets, the ruby of his pupils spreading black. "How could I assume to have your trust after all I've done to you?"

Her breath turned shaky, his questions seeping into her. She only knew that her answer was important—so very important. "I- I don't know, I…" she stumbled. "Maybe I… maybe I would trust you"—the idea made her sick—"if only you would give me something more to go on."

"Like _what_?" he hissed, leering over her for a paralyzing moment. His eyes flashed and stole her breath, his straight white teeth uncovering. Suddenly he was closer, much closer than before, his sweet breath in her face. "I'm a _monster_, Bella," he snapped, loathingly, torturously. "You _know_ what I am. What I can do to you. I know your thoughts. I know how much you _despise_ me," he growled, lifting a hesitating hand to hover near her cheek.

She let out a whimpering breath, mind racing; he glanced down at his fingertips as if they had moved to touch her without permission, without consent.

"I-" she choked out, trying to piece together his words, his reactions—_him_. The answer was there somewhere, cusped and boiling over the edge. "No, I- no, I don't," she lied.

"Don't. Lie. To _me._" She recoiled at the intensity of the demand; at the smoldering of his angry gaze so close to hers.

"I promise," she sputtered. "I don't… I just don't understand."

He tore away from her, straightening. "We're back to the start," he said, the timbre of his tone calming. "You would not believe me."

Desperation seized her as he stalked to the door, and she scrambled out of the covers, nearly tripping over her feet to grab his cool wrist—stupidly, unthinkingly, without caution.

She blinked and was against the wall, only the jagged line of his jaw in her sight, a large hand cupping her neck.

"Bella," he shuddered into her ear. "Do not test me, please. That was an utterly reckless thing to do."

She swallowed, sinking further into the wall as his thumb traced her pulse. _Why not just kill me,_ she thought, _and get it over with?_

He chuckled, bringing an arm up to rest above her head. He was so close, but she could not feel the flush of his exhales—he wasn't breathing.

"If I wouldn't believe you anyway," she whispered, "then what's the harm in letting me know?"

* * *

There was something alive inside of him, something waking in alert and stirring him deeply, touching some ravenous buried part. She breathed and he listened; her heart beat and he counted.

He wanted her warmth, her blood. He wanted to touch her searing skin.

It terrified him, this urge, this obsession that had been building within him all night as she slept, as he played the momentary comfort of her accidental embrace over and over for his mind's eye.

He was lonely. He was scared.

He felt her shiver next to him from fright, but it only excited the monster within him more.

He felt ill. He felt more than he had ever felt in decades.

"There is no harm," he finally answered. He wondered if she could hear the confusion in his voice, or if her ears weren't sensitive enough to pick up those minute wavers.

"Then…" Her mind was a flurry of thoughts, of a confusion that rivaled his. Her small palms lifted to press against his chest, the contact shooting right through him. She was brave and so, so unaware of his guilt over _enjoying_ that touch. He was disgusted. "Then tell me," she requested softly, pushing harder, distraught at his nearness.

"I'm sorry." He slid back, moving fast into a far corner to escape her. The quickness was startling, but she recovered quickly. "Forgive me. I find it difficult to… control myself with you." He spoke the words to the wall, fists clenched tight.

He swallowed and she took a step forward. Blindly, he watched the thick drapes intently, his focus completely on her thoughts, on her body language, and on the tempo of her breathing.

"My blood?" she questioned.

"Yes," he sighed. _And other things. Dangerous, foolish things._ "It's—I've never smelled anyone so…" He trailed off, tensing when she took another step forward.

Horrible thoughts flashed through her mind and he snarled, whipping his head towards her; she flinched and fell back. "_No,_" he answered viciously.

"What?" _It's almost as if-_

He turned away, expression going blank. Her realization dawned anyway in a string of frantic thoughts.

"You can read my mind," she said with wonder, with wide-eyed fear.

_It makes sense. It all makes sense. He knows. He knows everything. He knows everything I've ever thought-_

She inhaled deeply and stilled when he looked back to her, nothing but the thump-thump of her heart beat filling the silence. His lips parted, so many words and confessions painted on his tongue, the urge to spill them all rising.

"I would—never—keep you here to prolong the… inevitable you think of," he censored her suspicions with a distaste for them, holding back a growl. To think he would keep her here to drink her sweet blood and replenish the source… He closed his eyes, disgusted at the idea and equally tempted.

"How…?" she whispered, coming forward, close enough to grab the bedpost with shaking fingers. He knew she was asking of his ability, knew of the consuming curiosity in her mind. He simply smiled and shook his head, unwilling to see her innocent face gracing his vision, but unable to dam the pouring of her thoughts.

* * *

He looked worn—some beautiful depiction of misery made by some ancient sculptor, so still and perfect. With his eyes closed, he hardly looked alive.

Her question hung in the air, lost between them, the answer lost in his silence, in the intensity of her gaze.

For most of her life, Bella had known of creatures that killed without mercy. She knew about monsters. She'd seen blood spilled; she'd felt her own seeping from her, leaving her to certain death.

She had never doubted evil, never questioned that darkness. She had never once looked in the face of a killer and saw more than a demon.

"Edward?"

His name was a whisper, hardly an uttered sound, so soft and hesitant. She felt her cheeks flush at the sound of his _name_ carrying on her voice, felt it like some curling of betrayal in her gut.

His eyes were dark, outlined with scarlet. She sucked in breath.

_Tell me,_ she pleaded.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I might be evil. Next chapter later this week, and this one with more explanation on Bella's background. :) YOUR REVIEWS=LOVE.


	4. Chapter 4

**soif de sang** - chapter 4

**Fandom:** Twilight

**Characters: **Edward/Bella

**Rating:** M, for blood, violence, etc.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

* * *

Bella didn't fear God.

Her father did.

When she was younger, her daddy would smile, the crinkles around his eyes deep. He'd lift her up on his knee and read her stories from a little dark book in a gravelly voice. She'd listen, enraptured by fantastical tales of Angels and Demons and Ghosts and the men who feared and loved them.

She travelled on dusty roads, a little girl among people who were saving savages with Christ and God and the Holy Scripture.

She kept quiet when she was old enough, knowing better than to ask questions about why anyone would need saving and how much worth a book could truly have. She didn't question changing the ways of a gentle people, didn't question the surety of those around her that they would go to Hell without Christ.

Not until she met Jacob.

A good Christian name is what his father called Jacob with a proud smile. Not a human, but a name.

Christ had already blessed the remote settlement of Forks before they arrived.

They lived in a small house next to an old wooden church, because her father had said it was time to settle down. Bella would play in the graveyard, picking wild flowers and standing on headstones, always falling off and scraping her knees. Her father would scold at her for disrespecting the dead, his eyes tight and his lips pursed into an angry pucker.

He brought her with him to La Push to do God's work every day, his dog-eared copy of the Bible treasured at his side.

She never knew she could love someone as much as she loved Jacob. Never had she felt that bursting of her heart exploding, the warmth of her devotion seeping into everything she touched, everything she was.

But his good Christian name wasn't enough.

There was so much that wasn't enough.

* * *

_Tell me,_ she pleaded.

She was thinking of her father when she said it, of his anger and his wrath. She was thinking of Jacob and his wide smile and everything she saw and loved in him. She was thinking of his lies, of his demons. His very real demons.

"Tell me," she demanded, as if saying it out loud made any difference to him—to her it made all the difference.

He watched with fear in his eyes as she walked forward still, holding on tighter to the bedpost, unable to tear away from his relentless stare.

"Edward." Her voice shook; his name was an acknowledgment of his identity. Not as a demon, as a killer, but a man. She felt light-headed, dizzy, detached—like she was watching from afar.

But she wasn't; she was standing there, in soiled dirty clothes and bare feet, imploring a monster.

His lips thinned; he looked as frightened as she felt—just as shocked and terrified as she. "Bella." His voice was low and soft, all at once polite and formal and intimate in ways she couldn't fathom.

She nodded, knowing he could hear her heart thundering against her ribs. She fisted her dress into one small fist to keep her fingers from trembling.

_Don't make me regret this_, she prayed.

He exhaled, the dark red orbs of his eyes turning stormy. "Bella, I… never meant to hurt you," he said slowly, carefully.

She nodded again, still unsure and hardly breathing. _Go on._

His jaw set; his eyes hardened. "I don't _feed_ on the innocent. I never meant to…" He looked away, grabbing a hold of the bookcase in anger. The wood cracked and splintered. "I have… family," he struggled with the words, glaring furiously at the ground. "Family that lives where your…" Her breath caught. "They're... different from the others. They live off of animal blood. If you were to tell those _dogs_ I had attacked you, they'd go after me. They'd go after my family, or my family would try to intercede and I…" He exhaled, eyes drifting closed. "I couldn't let that happen."

Silence touched her voice. Her gaze traveled across the pale lines of his cotton shirt, the fabric wavering to the coiled steel of his profile.

There was a part of her—an uncertain part—that believed him, and how could she not? How could she watch him struggle so painfully, full of such acidic remorse—and not believe him? But how could she, at the same time? How could she discount everything she'd ever believed, ever _known_? How could she ignore the instinct to run as far away from him as she could?

"Who… do you…" she started. "That man who attacked me," she sighed. "You only kill…"

"Yes," he confirmed. "I kill monsters." He allowed himself a self-deprecating laugh. "Monsters not unlike myself."

Her lashes fluttered; she saw a trickle of powdered sawdust fall to the ground at her thoughts. "You don't want to be a monster?" she murmured.

It was only when she saw his eyes open, the glint of red staring sadly at nothing on the ground that she realized she had inched closer, her arm stretched and sore, nails digging into the bed post.

"No."

Her lips closed with a gust of inhaled air.

"Please, Bella," he whispered, "eat and drink something. Take a bath and change your clothes. We can continue this later once you have the strength to stand."

"No, I want to know now," she protested. "I deserve to know _now_."

He looked at her finally, surprised at the flare of stubbornness rising within her. She let go of the bedpost and rubbed her forearm absentmindedly, not breaking his gaze, not backing down no matter what the cost.

"At least sit down and have your meal while we talk," he compromised.

"Fine," she agreed grudgingly, spinning on her heel to plop back down on the bed. She reached dutifully for one glass of water and took a sip, and then a large gulp, greedily downing the rest. She was hyper-aware that he was moving into her line of vision, carefully backing into the armchair, dark red irises never leaving her face.

She didn't see him move the clothes and shoes onto the table, but somehow they were there and he was sitting.

She deposited the empty glass on her end table with a small clink, hands resting self-consciously in her lap, fingertips tracing the pretty blue print of her best dress over small knees. "Why aren't you with your family?" She asked after a moment.

"Eat," he ordered. She lifted her eyes to glare but he only stared back, unaffected by her hostile thoughts. "Eat," he repeated when she didn't move. "I'll talk."

Teeth bit her lips together and she reached for the plate, knowing she couldn't argue, especially because he was right—she was starving and she hardly _could_ stand.

Pointedly, she cut a piece of pancake with a fork and held it up to show him before slipping it into her mouth. Maybe it was because she was so hungry, but it tasted wonderful, and she tried to refrain from swallowing the rest whole.

It was small, but one side of his lips lifted crookedly, exposing a bit of teeth and some warmth into his eyes. She watched, fascinated and stunned, tearing her eyes away when she felt the beginnings of a blush tainting her cheeks.

"I didn't know vampires smiled," she muttered to her plate.

"We laugh too."

She used the opportunity to fill her mouth with more food, desperately hoping he'd speak to fill the thick silence. And luckily—or unluckily—he knew that she was hoping it and did.

"I left my family years ago," he started, the unexpected playfulness gone from his voice. "Animal blood… it nourishes and keeps us functioning, but it… it's not the same. I was… rebelling, you could say. I was being insolent and selfish; I wanted to give into the thirst that had plagued me since I turned."

Bella swallowed her next bite heavily. "So you left?"

A crease formed on his forehead; his eyes darted to the ground, hiding from her scrutiny. "I left," he said, hesitating over the words. "I… slipped."

Her grip tightened on her fork. _You killed someone._

He was frozen before her, a statue once again. For a long awhile he did not respond to her thoughts or her stricken gaze, even when images of blood and sounds of screams filtered into her mind, shuddering her spine.

"I killed someone," he finally spoke, eyes rounding, deepening in the memory. "I was ashamed. So I left."

"It wasn't your fault," she blurted out, jaw clamping shut when he raised his eyes to hers. He said nothing, just held her there with nothing but his attention, his face blank. She wondered if she was truly right.

"You've hardly touched your food," he said and the sudden sound startled her, breaking the spell.

Dutifully, she began to eat again despite how her hunger had waned in his stare; she was anxious to hear more, anxious to know everything.

"Carlisle—my father for all intents and purposes—tracked me down, tried to convince me to come back. He said—he said he forgave me for my transgression, and that there was nothing I could do that would make him think of me as less than a man. But I wouldn't hear any of it. I lashed out at him." He paused, brows furrowing in guilt. "I wanted to be on my own. I wanted to punish myself. But I couldn't bear the thought of killing someone so innocent again. I… I traveled, always staying close to Carlisle. I began scanning the thoughts of those around me, trying to find the minds of those who'd killed, raped… I thought if I'd saved a few, I'd… I don't know what I thought. I only knew that I couldn't go back, not after all I'd done. And then…" He sighed. "Then there was you."

She licked the syrup from her lips and balanced the plate in her hands, nails curling around the hardened clay. She waited, watching his frustration play across the planes of his features.

"I was planning on… I was going to idrain/i you. I was so sure of it. I… wanted to, but you… _looked_ at me and I saw what you saw. I couldn't. I couldn't bear it."

His eyes were shut tight. Bella looked away and quietly placed her dish back on the table, unwilling to identify the string of sympathy reaching out for him, her heart blind to its danger.

"I panicked when I'd seen I hurt you. I needed to make sure you were all right. But when you woke up, I heard your thoughts…"

His lashes lifted; she was once again prisoner in his eyes. The sadness, the hopelessness in them bottomed her stomach. She couldn't understand how something so evil could feel so much, and she couldn't stifle the rising thought that perhaps she was wrong.

"Why didn't you tell me right away?" It was the last query she needed answered, the one nagging question she had from the beginning.

"If you didn't believe me, and I let you go, my family would still be in danger."

"I wouldn't have said anything."

"Wouldn't you have?" he argued.

She looked down at her hands, unsure of her answer—knowing he could read her thoughts and know her uncertainty, that uncertainty she still carried with her now.

* * *

Time never moved slowly. In his decades of existence, Edward never cared about anything enough to feel the span of a moment, to listen intently to the tick of a clock.

He felt it now, watching her. He felt time like he had never felt anything. He felt it slow and stretch; he felt it _matter_.

And even as it did, as it became more than just a measurement to him, her pink lips parted and she sighed. And then time wasn't a measurement at all—it was a torture, a fickle thing that quickened and steadied and froze on its own cruel whims.

"I'd like to be alone now."

He nodded and rose; he knew she was watching him, could see it through her eyes, pinpointed on the floor but following his figure.

There was no need for words, not anymore.

He left the room at a human pace, so as not to startle her. The mechanisms of the door clicked behind him. He left the room unlocked.

* * *

She found the book nestled between an index of poetry and a medical dictionary.

The yellow cover was worn and the pages were thin. Some were bent and ripped, the typeface faded. The copyright was 1897—a first print.

She placed the book down on the table, and curled up on the armchair—Edward's armchair. The cushions sank under her light weight. Her fingers carefully, cautiously felt the seams as if it were he she was learning, testing with a touch.

A breeze struck her wet hair from behind, raising bumps on her skin. She felt clean from a recent bath, if nothing else, and clothed in a dress she could never afford—a dress no one she knew of could afford. The sun was out, a peeking ray of light amongst grey clouds.

Bella breathed in deep.

In the illumination of morning, the room looked old and lived-in, dull with browns and muted greens and blues and reds. It looked harmless—so unlike the shadows of her prison.

Quietly, she reached for the book and opened to the first page, driven by a curiosity she could not assuage. The binding creaked and the pages rustled. She gripped the book like a lifeline as she started the first sentence, and then fell headfirst into the enchanting prose for chapters, unable to put it down as the sun reached higher and a storm covered the sky.

"Do you like it?"

She jumped and looked up, startled by a smooth curious voice.

Edward stood in the doorway, the picture of the ethereal supernatural being: pale to near translucency, his glaring red eyes even more prominent in the white light of clouds.

"I'm—I don't know. I can't put it down." _But I wouldn't say I like it._

He looked down at the plate of food in his hands, smiling very slightly. "It wasn't a question I contemplated enough."

"It's a—it's a good book," she consented, closing it and laying it on the table. Nervously, she played with the dark sleeve of her dress, eyes roaming over the orange lettering of the title: _Dracula_ by Bram Stoker.

"Are you hungry?"

She gave him a hesitant smile in thanks as he left the door ajar to place the plate in front of her.

"I…" He sighed and lowered himself across from her, watching her untouched food. She couldn't help but feel the instant urge to run for the door, but she stayed put, knowing he could intercept her even if she tried. "You are free to leave," he explained gently. "I will escort you back home at your convenience."

Her voice stayed in her throat. She looked at the ruby of his eyes through the fan of his lashes, pressing her lips together at the indescribable emotion that willed his gaze to meet hers.

If he was a monster, she was afraid she didn't know anymore. She wasn't sure what she was looking for in his eyes, but when he lifted them to hers, she knew what she saw in them—regret and grief and loathing, decades of which she couldn't comprehend. Not the eyes of a monster, but a man.

"I'd like to leave now," she whispered.

He nodded.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** OMGGGGGG this chapter took me forever. Character development is HARD. It's finally ~done~ though. VIOLA. NEXT ONE SOONER I THINK. I'm looking forward to writing THAT one. :P


	5. Chapter 5

**soif de sang** - chapter 5

**Fandom:** Twilight

**Characters:** Edward/Bella

**Rating:** M, for blood, violence, etc.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

**Author's Notes:** This fic is AU with vamps and werewolves.

**Dedication: **TO DEA. SERIOUSLY. EVERY WORD OF THIS FIC IS DEDICATED TO YOU.

Also, to every song on the Underworld soundtracks, both the originals and music from the motion pictures. "Judith (Renholder Remix)" by A Perfect Circle is the only reason I got through part of this chapter. Oh, and also the Watchmen remix of "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning" by The Smashing Pumpkins.

* * *

She saw him everywhere: in the darkness of her nightmares, the shadows of her ceiling, a wisp of illusion as thin as air.

She felt him in the quiet, in the freezing wind whipping through her, the thick black night outside of her window.

He was everywhere and he was nowhere, some unseen ghost teasing the edges of her vision, baiting her senses.

He hovered in her mind like an affliction, a silent disease she couldn't cure herself of: all pale marble skin and ruby eyes, stone white teeth behind smooth tipped lips. Even the thought of his name sent shudders down her spine, imposed a sixth sense of eyes following every move and every flinch.

She felt it now, looking out on the bustling city, fingers lightly resting on the edge of a book.

Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps between dry lips. The sun was setting, casting the white clouds in a brilliant blue behind towering buildings.

She heard the timber of his voice, fuzzy from her memories. When her eyelids slipped closed she felt the chill of his breath on the back of her neck.

A creak disturbed her—a slow whine of old rusted metal. Her heart seized and she spun around, clutching the thick volume to her chest as if the old pages and torn cover could protect her, save her.

A black shoe, weathered and old, tipped the door in—beady eyes and a stern face with etched angles and lips that turned up into a false smile; a grimace.

"Come, Bella," her father demanded. "Do not dally by the window." He said the last word with a sneering contempt, a special emphasis that was not lost on her. Her own window in the next room was barred, and now her door locked from the outside.

The irony was not lost on her—she'd escaped one prison to occupy the next.

The thought stirred her; something forceful and wronged rose up in her and choked her with its vicious passion, its flare for vengeance.

"Do not look on me with that eye, child." The words were drawled and pointed, and her father, stately and garnished in black robes, stepped aside for her to pass out the doorway. "There's a demon in there you must learn to smother," he warned, "or else."

Her teeth clenched, ground so hard they might chip. Something red entered her vision, something angry and stubborn; she longed to lash out, to claw the skin from his weathered face with sharp nails. She longed to scream and curse god and his good book and everything in this cage masquerading as a home.

She longed to escape now more than ever. To forsake her father and his rules, to return to Forks to find—_Jacob_.

His name soothed her, but did not calm her anger. She clutched the book tighter and walked forward to pass her father as he ordered, avoiding his eye with a blinding anger that shook her very core.

He'd taken her happiness, and now he'd taken her freedom too. Her freedom, which she had so soon only re-won, was now up for an impossible ransom—for she would never be devoted to a scornful and merciless god and she would never rein in whatever demon her father foolishly thought was in her.

Her father didn't know what a true demon was.

Wordlessly she entered her room—her small Spartan room, painted in a dull chipping white. She didn't turn as the door slammed and locked behind her, only flinched at the small click, at that small yet so consequential sound that signified the invisible shackles around her wrists.

She stared out into the setting sun for a moment—eyes wide and only seeing the lonely desolate path of her life stretched out before her, if she were to sit idle, if she were to concede.

And then she gazed down to the small thing in her hands, palms sweaty and fingers moistly gripping the worn orange binding.

_Dracula_, a first edition.

* * *

She fell asleep to the trumpets of rain—heavy and drowning. The last thing she saw was the mysterious book resting on her little table, the last thought of crimson eyes and a frightful smile.

She woke to a sound—something small, enough to rouse her from a light sleep and a suffocating dream of twisting dark corridors and echoing disembodied laughter, both cruel and maniacal.

The window's glass magnified the rivulets of rain pouring down its surface, its bars casted parallel shadows on the floor, superimposed on the soft rotting floorboards.

She rose slowly, and reached for the light, but froze—the book was gone; occupying the space where she left it was air.

"Don't be afraid," said a voice, and her neck snapped towards the source.

There he stood: the phantom of her nightmares, silhouetted in black, ruby pupils shining in the natural light of the moon. His milky pale skin blended into the stark white of her walls, and one of his hands held the book; it was hanging by his side. His reddish head of hair rested back, as if appraising her.

He filled her with fear, yes, but not enough to numb her with paralysis, not enough to stir her into movement. She was afraid; her heart sped up, her fingers shook, she wondered if he now sought her blood, yet she was torn by her instincts and by his words, the glimpse of something more than just a monster in his eyes.

Her nightmare was real, and yet the illusions she had dreamt shook and excited her more than the reality, the actual flesh.

"I'm not afraid," she lied, even though she knew he could tell the truth. He agitated her—his level stare, his practiced countenance of casualty, his false ignorance of her thoughts.

She'd fallen asleep wondering what game he was now playing, what game he could now possibly play, leaving a keepsake in her home—for her to find?—and now appearing in some dark corner of her room at night.

If he wanted to kill her, she rationalized; he would have done so already.

His expression changed, deepened into something dark and menacing. She saw the flash of his eye and tensed at his step forward. "What do you want?" She strung out, gathering the sheets closer to her chest.

He came to himself; his expression cleared. He looked troubled suddenly, his brow furrowing inward. "Bella." Her name on his lips shuddered her spine, smooth and deep, the simple word traveling on just an exhale of air. There was something possessive in his tone, something yearning that caused her grip to tighten and her body to curl in on itself. He careened closer, hulking forward, his lips parting and the dark ruby of his eyes spreading black.

Thunder rolled in the distance, but neither the previous flash nor the cracking boom deterred her gaze from his. Her eyes widened, the terror she had been lacking came forth tenfold.

He was beautiful; he was dangerous, standing half way to her bed, raven eyes clutching hers, the light in them part wild and part arresting.

"Bella," he said again, his voice broken. "I'm sorry, I…" He turned away, quickly—he was gone into the corner again, and facing the wall.

Her heavy breath filled the room with a soundtrack of panic and relief; she blinked and slid her feet to the floor a moment later, trembling hands reaching for water. It sloshed in her grasp but she succeeded in wetting her lips, her throat, clearing the passage of fear.

"I can control myself," he hissed.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, pinning his back with a stare. Her eyes filled to the brim; emotion choked her. She felt the beginnings of hysteria raising, buried in the depths of her silence and forced obedience. She was done feeling caged, browbeaten, pushed back. "What do you want from me?" The questions grated her throat, torn from the pain within her chest.

"I couldn't stay away." His voice was thick; the words trembled, the ethereal smoothness of usually enchanting octaves disrupted by some emotion frighteningly human. They floored her—scared her, chilled her. "I had to… hover. I had to _know_ you wouldn't seek out the wolves," he continued, he clarified, his voice turning to stone. "And you didn't. But your _father_… the windows, the doors. Caging you like some animal… Like I…" He paused, bowing his head in shame. "I wasn't trying to scare you. It wasn't my intention to leave the book here. Forgive me, Bella, if only you could understand… You are the first person I've spoken to in years. The first human in decades." The words were lost, deprived, troubled—grave and pained. "I don't _know_ how to… I have no right. I know this. Hate me if you want, Bella. Fear me—you should. I want nothing but your—your trust."

It was quiet save her one disbelieving whimper—her thoughts screaming and lashing, the strong line of his shoulders hunching further with each vicious declaration, each curse and hope of ill will that crossed her mind, laced with the delirium of her distress, of the sudden freedom of her spirit.

_I will_ never _trust you._

She vowed it, she swore it and her gut lurched; she held her feet glued to the floor as she remembered his struggles, his soft and true denial_—"You don't want to be a monster?"—"No."_

The silly unbridled part of her rose up and fought against her vehement response, however hushed the promise was—but she couldn't take it back, couldn't deny it in anything but a dismissive whisper.

His fingers curled into his palm; pale long things pressed against the wall for stability. She watched the slow hypnotizing movement, the way his skin stretched over bone and his knuckles jutted out.

"You know my answer." Inside she seethed; she felt his presence turn something sick inside of her. Instinctively she held her stomach beneath her thin nightdress to keep herself together, the cotton soft, flimsy, fitting into her fist.

"I make a point to take the thoughts of others with a grain of salt. What they think is not always what they say," he whispered.

"That is _not_ a problem you will have with me," she said through clenched teeth, shaking as she placed her glass down, eyes unable to leave his too-still figure. "How did you—how did you even get in here?"

"The window," he replied quietly. "I'm—Bella…" It was there again—that soft coveting tone that sent shivers up and down her spine and shook her, that threatened to soothe her under false pretenses, snaring like trap.

He was gone from the corner—she gasped in a puff of cool air and his sweet scent; he was closer now, near the edge of her bed, his jaw tense and his chest unmoving under the labor of breath.

"The window?" she questioned, flicking her gaze to the straight iron bars.

"Bella, I can take you from here," he whispered. "If you'll trust me and even if you don't."

She stumbled back, crashing against her end table; the glass of water teetered and she scrambled to catch it, but his hand was there first. Liquid splashed and soaked into the boards, but she could only see the strong slope of his jaw, his black eyes rimmed with red and anticipation.

"Come with me," he pleaded, setting the glass down. A flash of lightning cracked through the sky, illuminating the shadows of his face for an instant, and in that instant she saw freedom—true freedom—past the bars of her prison, both figurative and literal. She saw the sun. She saw Jacob.

But the following rumble of thunder broke her from her trance, and back were the shadows, and back was her horror of the creature in front of her, of the danger he brought with him, of the terror he had wrought and of the mistrust she had in everything he was.

"I don't trust you," she said, she trembled, holding the ridge of wood behind her for support.

"I know." His voice was anguished, his eyes narrowed, his vision narrowing on her and only her and she saw the man in him and not the monster and she didn't want to believe in something pure in something so evil. "I want to help you. I want to give you a reason to trust me, Bella."

"Why is it so important to you? So I protect your family?" she asked under her breath, feeling faint with his words, his proximity. He leaned forward and reached for her, but she recoiled with disgust and he froze.

"Yes," he said, voice viscid with lies and half-truths.

"I shouldn't." She was wavering and she knew he could tell from her thoughts, her wandering thoughts of cool rain against her skin and the image of Jacob's bright smile in her mind—fuzzy with the passing of time, slipping away too quickly.

"Come with me," he said, and when he reached for her again, hesitantly moving his hand along the edge of her table towards her white-knuckled fist, she did nothing but look deep into the depths of his eyes, wide and full of a dark enchantment that threatened to break her.

"Why can't you just let me go, Edward?" she said, so low that only he could hear—her voice nothing but a breath between. "Open the window and let me go?"

The tips of cold digits fluttered over hers and he exhaled heavily, breathing in only to pause abruptly, inclining slightly forward, eyes flashing half-mad with her scent before clearing. "I need to watch over you. Secure my family's safety," he answered matter-of-factly.

"No, that's not all." She shuddered and shook her head.

"Bella…" That tone, that longing caught her throat, his eyes clouding with something dark yet again—deeper and as stormy as the angry sky, something like thirst but not quite, some stirring inside of him she now recognized. "You silly stupid girl," he muttered, and she knew it then—she knew that if nothing, that the danger she was in was something she could never escape.

Not for an eternity, not for anything.

"Take me with you." The words left her before she could fully formulate what she was doing, before she could see the consequences of her actions.

Freedom was closer than she could ignore, even if offered by the devil himself. She'd readily leave this locked room at any cost, and he knew it—of course he did. He knew her mind, her thoughts, and her desires. He knew of her plans.

His hand, cold and strong, pressed against hers and she turned it into his. The action, her warmth, _something_ encouraged him to bend even closer to her upturned defiant expression, fingers weaving into hers and clamping down in an unbreakable link.

Her skin crawled, but her jaw set.

* * *

She was cold, wet, tired and hungry.

The sky was lighting, the storm was passing with stubborn slowness as the sun rose and fought to beat it back.

He had the presence of mind to lead her to a different room than before, chilled hands accepting her soaked coat with ease, black eyes roaming her damp face. She felt sick with the fast journey she'd suffered, clinging to his shirt as the city flashed by in a literal blink or two of an eye—her rundown home and familiar streets reduced to nothing but an inconsequential blur.

He dropped her bag with a wet slap and a thud on the floor. He moved quickly, shutting the drapes and then disappearing into an adjoining bathroom, out of the room and then back.

Nauseous, she sat down on the bed and suddenly he was in front of her again, towering over her with a plate of food she took and sat on her lap.

She shivered and clutched at the towel he draped around her, resisting the urge to shrink back as he rested next to her.

"I don't want to stay here, Edward." Her teeth chattered.

"Just for the day," he promised, and smoothed her matted hair back, the human-like touch sending an icy slide down her spine.

She let it; she let him, because she had no other choice, because it was comfort, however wretched it made her feel to take solace in it. She blinked and tears lingered with the rain dying on her face—tears for Jacob, for her father, for herself, for the man, the monster next to her. She felt lost, abandoned—for the first time she let herself _feel_ it, all of it. Every last goodbye and every smothering of her voice, every dark empty spot left in her soul.

"I'm a monster, Bella," he whispered, explained gently. She nodded, lips pressing together with the effort to keep it all inside, all of her confusion and all of her pain and loneliness. "Bella," and his cool hand lingered at the nape of her neck, fingers curling into wet locks and back again, over and over until a small whimper left her, a muffled sob escaped. "I'm not just a monster." He shuddered angrily with the words, hissing them through his teeth—and then he grew softer and touched the tears running down her cheeks; she saw the wide pupils of his eyes dilate into abysses and her inhale hitched on another cry. "You've shown me that."

"Edward, I can't." The protest wobbled, turned, heaved with her tears. "I can't be this for you. I'm not. I'm not anyone special, anyone-" Her bitterness consumed her, and she couldn't help but let his chest lean into her shoulder, his careful hand take her food from her lap and place his palm over hers.

Her breath shuddered for a different reason entirely—she felt his body, cold as ice, felt his sighs against her neck like she had imagined, again and again, but she wasn't afraid in that moment, and that scared her more than anything.

"You're safe here." He was calm, his voice sure. "You're not alone with me."

"I can't stay here." Her tears were waning, but her chest was heaving; she felt panic taking over her racing heart, her quickened breaths. She dug her nails into the back of his hand, but he couldn't feel her desperation and he didn't pull back and she didn't want him to.

"I'm not keeping you here." He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and kneaded softly, his thumb rubbing circles at her pulse.

"I need to find Jacob," she blurted out, she reaffirmed. He was silent and so was she for a long testing moment—for an eternity of a few mere seconds.

"I know," he finally conceded, and tilted his head, but she wouldn't let him look into her eyes at the emotions there that betrayed her, even though her thoughts were proof enough. "If you're not afraid of me, Bella, why is your heart racing?"

"Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?" she snapped, finding the strength to face him. He was close—very—only inches separated his grave expression, his marble lips and inky eyes from hers.

It was the last thing she was expecting—a careful crooked upturning of lips and an amusement that mocked her annoyance. "To be polite. To give you the chance to let me acknowledge your private thoughts."

Her gaze settled on his smile and then darted away; her heart pounded against her chest even as her lungs calmed. _My thoughts aren't private with you_, she reflected pointedly.

He made a sound, almost like a laugh and almost like a scoff.

"You put on such a hard front, Bella." He sighed and rose, untangling himself to only look down at her, his smirk lingering. "But I do know your thoughts, whether you share them or not."

"Why did you leave the book?" she asked, glancing up at him beneath lowered lashes.

The turn of his lips softened. "I didn't leave it on purpose, Bella—you entered the room so quickly, and your father…" He sighed. "I was intending on it being a gift."

Her eyebrows rose, the incredulity of his intentions addressed by sarcastic thoughts. _Were you trying to soften me up by giving me a book about an evil vampire who keeps someone locked in his castle?_

He looked away, smiling in self-deprecation to the floor. "_No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be_," he quoted, and it left her staring at the door long after he'd exited through it.

* * *

It was never quiet.

He rubbed his face into the soft ground, ears twitching to the sounds of buzzing insects and singing birds, the howling of wolves far in the distance.

Huffing and agitated, he nuzzled further down, desperate for the solace of silence he sought—desperate for a wink of sleep. The beast in him growled and he threw a paw over the protuberance of his jaw to cover his eyes—as if it could help.

A whisper sounded, nudging the edge of his unconsciousness—his name, sharp and panicked.

_Jacob_.

It happened in an instant: the atmosphere shifted, the paw covering his face was suddenly a hand and a cool breeze flushed his hot bare skin.

Grunting, he stood, lithe muscles moving and bending against the silvery light of the moon. A soft growl escaped him; he grabbed the small bag tied to his leg and pulled out weathered and torn pants—he'd lost his shoes weeks ago.

Quickly, he pulled them on, tying the knot tight, sensitive ears perked for anything suspicious, anything at all besides the natural world teeming around him. He sniffed the air, tangy with rain and pine.

_There_.

He stood up straight, rigid—the soft pads of paws in the distance. They were coming for him.

He ran. Hard and fast, leaping with sure strides and pushing his limits. His skin crawled, his body convulsed under the urge to turn, to rip open into an animal—to go faster, to escape. The forest flew by, the moon the only constant in his vision.

They were clearer, nearer, closer—he heard their growls, the rabid barks on his heels. He pushed forward even further, desperate, the sinew beneath his skin screaming with effort.

He felt it, moving along his skin, that primal ripple promising instant relief. It was slowing him down, dragging him under. His jaw clenched against the lengthening of canines, the jagged tips biting down on his gums and drawing blood.

The trees rustled around him, their sharp branches slicing his quickly healing skin as he passed, leaving behind a trail.

They were gaining, mere hundreds of yards behind him—and he couldn't fight it, not when all was so close to being lost—fur erupted, his clothes tore, he let out a roar as the world changed, his vision shifted, his mind merged.

_Jacob!_

His paws hit the ground; the pain disappeared. He shot into the depths of the trees with a renewed vigor.

_Leave_, he growled.

_Melodramatic as always_, Leah scoffed.

_Awe. C'mon, Jake, stop running from us._

_Leave, Seth_. He stressed the order, knowing it would have no affect over him and cursing the fact, for the moment. _Both of you, or else._

_Ooo, scary,_ Leah mocked. _I don't know about you, Seth, but_ I'm _afraid of the big bad wolf._

Leah's careless sarcasm and Seth's innocent hopes raised his hackles—he cleared a steep cliff in one bound, escaping the thick foliage of trees and landed squarely on his feet, turning to bare the white knives of his teeth.

Leah and Seth hovered at the edge of the cliff, both treading on the edge. Seth whimpered and howled and Leah stared straight into the black of his changed eyes, not intimidated.

He snarled, pressing close to the ground, his rage escalating—at them, at himself for being found, for allowing them into his head, into his mind, where _no one_ but he belonged.

_You wouldn't_, Leah sneered, but she wasn't so sure.

_We're family, Jake._

_Don't_ test _me. Turn around and go._

Foolishly, Seth jumped, landing mere feet away—Jacob lunged, snapping his jaw in warning, and Seth fell back, claws scraping rock.

A light coat of fur crashed between them, landing spryly, a vicious bark pushing him away. Cautiously, he circled Leah's growling form, her canines gleaming, the furrows of her face wrinkled and pulled back in warning.

_Don't you dare touch him, Jacob,_ she snapped.

_So now you're protective_, he retorted heartlessly, glancing quickly at Seth.

The younger wolf advanced slowly, his hair standing up on instinct, but his thoughts hurt. _Why'd you attack me, you idiot! We're trying to help you!_

_Not that you deserve it,_ Leah added.

_I don't need any help_, he denied vehemently.

_You're not going to get very far without pants, though_, she teased maliciously, knowingly.

He gnashed his teeth and moved as if to pounce, but simply hung there as Leah's ears pulled back with the force of her growl.

_Can't we all just get along?_ Seth's head bowed and he licked a closing scrape on his paw absentmindedly. _This is the last of us_, he thought forlornly, howling, high-pitched and mourning, the sound piercing and pointed towards the moon. _We're all we've got left._

His grief echoed, went through Jacob with the force of his own, stirring guilt. _I have to do this myself._

_You're not the only one who lost them,_ Leah said with disgust.

The anger returned full force; wildly he lunged and Leah recoiled before pouncing—they clashed deafeningly, Seth yelping as Leah's teeth impaled his shoulder and his heavier weight crushed her beneath him.

_So we're just going to kill each other now instead!_

Seth's words rang thought his mind and Leah pushed him off, limping slightly as she retreated. _No_, Leah replied.

Jacob stumbled and futilely tried to lick his seeping shoulder, to taste the torn skin beneath with wet fur, now darker with blood. He whimpered.

_Oh, did I hurt you?_ Leah remarked liltingly, and his lips curled back.

_I hurt you too._

_That's all we're doing,_ Seth cut in, uncharacteristically angry, his patience running thinner.

_You're_ not_, you know. We lost them too._ The comment was acidic, bitter, filled with a hidden meaning—she might as well have said she lost Sam, too.

_And it was my fault_, he thought it, couldn't censor it—not with the link so strong, not with them so near. _It's my responsibility to clean this up._

_It's all of ours_, Seth growled.

Leah stepped forward, letting out a soft bark of agreement. _It's a suicide mission alone and you know it. Now stop acting like a child and lead us._

_I'll follow you_, Seth stepped forward.

_Rather you than him_, Leah joked dryly, and Seth yapped at his sister in retaliation.

Jacob knew why neither of them had taken the mantle—knew neither wanted the responsibility, knew they both feared it and wanted him to take it—wanted him to fulfill his true role as Alpha.

And wanted him to take it willingly, so as not to lose him.

He snapped his teeth, he growled, but he knew it—he knew it deep down, that there was no way he would survive, and he knew a part of him didn't want to. He knew that they were right, that he only wanted to be alone at the end—his end.

_Bella's still out there somewhere_, Leah said knowingly, hearing his pained mind. _Do you really want to leave her?_

He snarled, but it ended on a whimper, his heart lurched; he knew the answer—_no_.

_You know what to do._

_

* * *

_

Thank you for all the reviews to last chapter!! I haven't had a chance to reply to them yet, but I will! I know this update took awhile, but I had finals and then the holidays, and well... you know how that goes. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! It took me awhile to get in the groove for it.


	6. Chapter 6

**soif de sang** - chapter 6

**Fandom**: Twilight

**Characters**: Edward/Bella

**Rating**: M, for blood, violence, etc.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything.

**Author's Notes**: This fic is AU with vamps and werewolves.

So, this was getting long, and I'm not a fan of long chapters. It's mostly overdue relationship development. I KNOW I KNOW. I promised action, or at least I promised myself action and more _plot_ development and reveals, but it'll just have to be in chapter seven. Sorry for dragging this out so much. To be quite honest where I was taking/the details of this fic hadn't really crystallized in my mind until uhm, last chapterish. When I realized I had actual readers I put in some more effort. All for you guys.

* * *

You see I cannot see – your lifetime –

I must guess –

How many times it ache for me – today – Confess –

How many times for my far sake

The brave eyes film –

But I guess guessing hurts –

Mine – get so dim!

Too vague – the face –

My own – so patient – covers –

Too far – the strength –

My timidness enfolds –

Haunting the Heart –

Like her translated faces –

Teasing the want –

It – only – can suffice!

_Emily Dickinson_

_-  
_

He listened to her dreams.

The sun was setting. The drapes were drawn apart to allow in some light, to touch the pale slopes of her face.

She was beautiful—imperfect and human, her scent sweetening his lungs. He could see the wrinkles of her lips and light freckles dotted over her nose, the beauty of life stirring her heart to beat.

He leaned against the doorframe, hovering, afraid to enter—afraid to disturb what was not his, afraid to enter a world that he didn't belong to. He stayed in the shadows, where he should be—his rightful dwelling.

Yet the darkness didn't seem so deep with her world so near—with her dreams whispering into his ear, even if they were swift and confusing, near unintelligible through the mist of her unconscious.

He sighed, resting his head to the side, taking in air on purpose, taking in her, conditioning himself further every moment.

"Edward," she breathed—her mind touched his with the same sweeping syllables—he heard them, superimposed with both senses.

The dead heart in his chest jump-started; her voice sent warmth to every inch of his body as if he was living again and she was the key. He watched as her eyes moved under the thin curtain of lids, her lashes kissing her cheeks.

His lips parted, he listened closer, intently—intently.

She turned her face towards him with a sigh; he traced the curve of her mouth with his eyes to memorize the soft lines, the hue of pink flesh. Her torso lifted slightly and fell like liquid splashing back onto the sheets.

The last rays of the sun were bathing her face, retreating slowly, and he stepped behind the line of the light, cautiously finding the shadows. _Not there_, he caught the strain of thought and then nothing.

She was moving again, heavy limbs restless. Her breathing had changed; she was close to waking. He tasted the air when her neck arched back, venom bursting at the sight on her pulse, but he saw the delicate slope and curved shape too, the dips and valleys beckoning his study.

_You can't_, she dreamt. _Edward_.

"Edward," she murmured.

"Bella, wake up," he whispered, and he touched the line of her jaw lightly, leaning over as her struggles calmed. She shivered when he cupped her neck, her blood rushing against his palm, warming his skin. "You're dreaming."

Her head moved back and forth, lolling, the chestnut brown of her irises uncovering, sleep still half-holding her. "I was dreaming," she croaked out through a dry raspy throat.

"You said my name," he said, in awe, in curiosity, but her thoughts were quiet.

"I don't remember," she replied, and she didn't, the soft fuzzy images of her dream floating away, but the feelings lingering—a restlessness, a confusion.

She gazed up at him between narrow lids; a hum left her mouth—he heard the calmness only sleep could bring in her mind, the looseness of her thoughts. "Your hand is cold," she muttered. _It feels nice_.

He smiled, an indefinable joy bursting inside of him, one he held in with a simple unsure turn of his mouth. She was awake, her thoughts were getting clearer, and there was softness in her eyes, unburdened by distrust and hatred and only tainted by uncertainty.

"Edward," she said his name like a warning, like a question, and even though her intentions were not clearly spelled out in her mind, he knew them as if they were his own.

"Yes?" He was nervous, wrecked with it as her hand lifted and his breath stopped entirely, eyes flashing towards her in fear.

She pressed those lips together and reached for him, a caution that comforted him in her eyes, a knowing of his weakness. The tips of her fingers grazed, moved the fold of his collar, and she spread her warm palm over the absent beat of his heart.

She gasped and he would have too, if he thought he could handle the rush of her scent combined with the feel of her touching him. He was on edge, two different kinds, both he was deathly afraid of falling off—both that would surely lead to the same end if she kept looking at him like that, if her thoughts kept turning to him with such curiosity and confusion.

Her shallow breath pulled him closer; his jaw tensed when he felt the wave of her exhales on his lips—hot and moist with anxiousness, with fear he tried to assuage by keeping his eyes locked with hers. They darted, paced in hers as if those wide brown orbs caged him, and he knew they did.

Fingertips feathered up, tracing the suddenly bobbing apple in his throat; her touch pulled him even closer, like a magnet. He clamped his teeth together, but moved an arm over her, clutching the sheets with a vicious telling of his slim control.

"You feel…" she muttered, _like cold stone._

He wouldn't know. "No one's ever," he gasped. She flooded his lungs like salvation and he swallowed back venom, making a soft groan when her hand traveled to explore his clenching jaw, the thin blue of the veins in her wrist so delicate and close. "Ever touched me like this before."

"Like what?" she whispered, but she knew the answer, moving to feel the smoothness of his lips carefully, slowly, as if he was the one in danger, and maybe he was.

_You're so… beautiful._ She breathed in sharply, aware of her untamed thoughts, her wandering mind.

His knuckles whitened as her eyes slipped closed, her neck arched, tipping her parted mouth towards him, the pulsing vein in her throat.

He couldn't do anything but watch the flutter of her eyelids and inch his lips below her chin, her fingers between them. He kissed them, softly, and she inhaled, pushing up. The demon inside of him was imagining blood, thick and wet and hot running down his throat, but he could only imagine that gentle sound again and again. He saw her tongue fold against her lips and then retreat and he closed his eyes against the tempting image.

"Do you want me to?" he choked out, brushing her trembling skin. Her fingerprints pressed, marked into his lips.

He reached for her cheek and he felt his control teetering when she leaned into the brave touch, when her mind whispered, afraid but willing, _I want you to._

He strained closer, watched through lidded eyes as her brows furrowed and he left her fingers to scrape and clutch at his neck, his collar. He tipped her chin down, the simple inch bringing the corner of her mouth under his. "Are you sure?" he asked, and she nodded slightly, and he eagerly stilled her, pressing his lips to hers.

Her hand shook as it wove into the hair at the nape of his neck, her ineffectual strength endeavoring to draw him closer.

_This is what I dreamt about_. Her mouth opened for him, her realization hit him hard, and he was gone—mind, body, soul.

She breathed into him, trapped his bottom lip between hers, struggling to sit up against his rigid body—his eyes opened; he grabbed the bedpost, cracking the wood, pushing it back against the wall.

_Kiss me._

His head bowed further, his lashes brushed against her cheek, and he did, unsure, careful and shaking with thirst—once, twice, faint with her insistent retaliations. Her tongue slid along the apex of his lips daringly and he shot back with a snarl, crashing against the doorframe.

She was sitting now, eyes wide, her heavy breath filling the room.

"Too much," he ground out.

His tongue flicked out to taste her on his lips, because nothing could satiate his thirst, because he wanted to be tortured and he wanted to revel in the memory of her scorching, trying kiss.

"Was that okay?" she choked a little on the words, looking to him in fear, in worry—so innocent and confused, so ripe for his taking. Like a sacrificial lamb looking helplessly into the eyes of her predator.

Her mind was spinning; she wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to know what her heart and body were whispering to her, wanted to understand why she felt so torn and how she could want a monster when there was a man out there, somewhere, loving her and wanting to get back to her.

And she knew it wasn't okay.

He gulped in air; he gulped in her, letting his eyes fall from her pleading orbs, turning away from the thoughts and desires that plagued her. Hatred rose up in him for his selfishness, his weakness. He wanted to lie, to cross the space between them and claim her. More than anything he wanted to feel her, taste her, find some comfort in her warmth, and keep her for his own.

He was crazy with it, drowned by it.

"Edward?" She had shifted, and he watched through hazy narrowed eyes as her small feet touched the cool floor.

He wanted to reach for her, give into her silent questions. Hungry, he met her gaze, heard the gentle resolution in her mind. Her slow movements mesmerized him, each step bringing her closer.

Her hand hovered between them; his nostrils flared as her scent assaulted him and he turned away in pain, in restraint.

"It's not okay," he said, his voice shredded on a snarl.

Her arm dropped, her fingers curling into a tight fist. "Then why-?" She was angry; her jaw set. She thought maybe she was wrong, that this was all just a game to him after all, that her feelings, her past, her thoughts were only playthings to him, and nothing more.

That he was just a monster, and she was a fool for thinking otherwise—even fleetingly, even for a moment. And she was betrayed—her thin trust was torn—she was more hurt than she dared to convey.

He saw them, shining pieces of liquid glass gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "I hate you," she forced out, the words both soft with loathing and jagged with fury. "I hate you so much."

He was silent; his voice was captured by the paralyzing ache that had taken up residence in the emptiness of his chest. "Bella, no…" he whispered.

"_No_," she snapped.

"It's not okay," he repeated, subdued by the tears that rolled down her face with each involuntarily blink, the harsh swiping of her fingers smearing the wet beads. "Because you belong to someone else." He reached for her, unable to stand stoic in her resentful, agonized stare, gripping her harder as she instantly struggled, nails clawing desperately at his face. She fell against him, shutting her eyes tight as he pressed his lips to her cheek, her fingers viciously grabbing locks of his hair.

His thirst reigned—she was sweet and warm—but his gut lurched at her pain.

"Bella," he murmured, and she calmed, attempting to jerk away from him once before leaning into his embrace.

She laid her turbulent mind upon his shoulder and he wove his fingers through her hair, arching his neck to kiss one tear-stained cheek.

"I wish I could keep you."

* * *

His lips made her shudder, lingering against her skin, and his confession warmed and terrified her. She was caged in his arms, but she felt some key twisting her heart too. An unbreakable box opening, the mechanisms unlocking with each second that passed.

She was a prisoner—no matter if the chains on her bruised wrists were real or imaginary—she was a prisoner.

From her first breath her father had limited the dwellings of her thoughts and poisoned them with religious rhetoric—had beaten her down before she could even fight. Jacob had been salvation, had been sunlight and beauty and all that mattered—he'd blinded her with love, tore her from the safe cocoon of submissive acceptance, given her a choice.

Gave her a freedom she tasted and gorged on readily, only to be rejected by his tribe, his pack—to be hunted by their enemies, and then, dust cleared and god willing, torn from her minute happiness and barred away upon discovery.

She'd been an instrument—a possession, bait—anything but a human with a will.

She felt sick and lost, out of her skin. Edward was solid against her; his arms crushing and his breath soothing, but she was somewhere else—in her memories, in Forks with Jacob, tied by his love, and with her father, stifled by his hate.

"I'm nobody's to keep," and the words summoned her back. "It's not your choice what's okay." The declarations were calm, measured, but she felt the honesty and decisiveness in them invigorating her.

He was still, quiet, and then his mouth was hovering by her ear, one hand cupping her jaw up, fingers trailing over the hollow of her throat. She gripped him harder, pulling at his scalp for leverage. Her balance teetered at his little touches and she felt him smile, heard the deep rumbling of his chuckle as he snaked an arm around her waist and tugged her flush against him.

"It's a little bit my choice, Bella."

"I think it's okay," she argued rebelliously, stubbornly, knowing it wasn't but wanting it anyway. She nestled closer, pressing her lips under his jaw, breath skipping at the way he leaned into the kiss, arresting her control. "You started it," she accused, shaking, arching deeper into him.

"I didn't start this, you silly girl," he scoffed on a choked laugh.

"You kissed me."

"You wanted me to."

"You kidnapped me."

"Now you're just being unfair," he growled, and she felt a little faint with the easy light that started to glow somewhere beneath her ribs, like a spark of comfort, a piece of contentment she hadn't felt since the heat of Jacob's kiss.

"I don't hate you," she breathed, moving her lips along his icy marble skin.

She didn't know what she expected—but it wasn't his sudden intake of air, his nose burying below her ear, his strength doubling and bruises forming over her delicate skin. She gasped and his mouth opened over her pulse, cool and damp with soft growls.

She flinched, but couldn't pull away even if she had wanted to, her hammering heart slowing when his teeth didn't even graze the line of her offered neck.

"Bella," he moaned her name.

Maybe this was a different sort of desire.

"Bella, I'm so sorry." He pulled back, cradling her head gingerly, as if she were glass.

There was something in his eyes, something more liquid than stone, something human. For the first time she allowed herself to study those red-rimmed pupils openly, to fall headfirst into their depths.

"For what?"

"For everything. For not being able to stay away from you. For ruining your life."

"My life was already ruined." She smiled ruefully, sadly.

"Then for complicating it."

That she could argue with, that she couldn't deny—yet the bitterness she had felt was dissipating slowly, replaced by something else. _I'm not very sorry anymore. You're my only_- She couldn't finish the thought; she didn't know what he was to her anymore.

Only what he could be, what he should never be, and she wondered how and when he'd found her heart and wrapped some small but inextricable hold on it—the organ she thought so perfectly entwined to another's.

His thumb brushed over the ridge of her cheek and his answering smile was tight and hard. His crimson eyes held a reflection of the defeat and desire she felt for him, and the helplessness of both.

"Come with me," she whispered—and his whole body went rigid; the man in his eyes battled the demon. She couldn't be afraid. She wouldn't. "Would you-?" she stammered. "Would you come with me?"

"It's suicide," he deadpanned, emotionless—and that scared her in a different way than his viciousness.

"I can't find him without—without help. If he's not in Forks-"

There was nothing between her and the door anymore; Edward was gone, his touch rescinded. Startled and bereft, she spun around.

His posture was tense; he was facing one of the long windows, clutching the frame as if the slabs of wood were his only anchors. She couldn't see his face, and she didn't need to. Her request was selfish, even cruel, and it burned her heart as she moved towards him.

"Do you think so little of me, of how I feel?" The acidic questions cut her deep; she reached for him, just touching the slope of his shoulder.

The irony was not lost on her. "You know what I think," she answered in a small voice.

"Not what you feel," he muttered under his breath.

The air was stagnant. _I don't know what I feel_. "I'm so sorry, Edward." She wrapped her arm around his and hugged it to her chest, stricken on his stone face, his flickering eyes. The guilt crushed her. She felt a raise of momentary panic at his silent pain and hated herself a little more each second for being so stupid and so blind.

Unseeing in her desperation.

_I take it back_. It was a reflexive thought, a childish reaction she only wanted to share with herself.

He cringed, his beautiful face contorting, his head bowing down to the grey twilight beyond the glass. "You want me to come with you?"

She bit her lip and held him tighter unconsciously, her thoughts of denial false, but her slips of the mind telling.

"I'll go with you, Bella."

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:**

OMG THIS CHAPTER HAS PLOT! Crazy, I know. It's short, but expect another one early next week. ~I am on a roll~. Hopefully this chapter clears about some thing and alludes to others that will be cleared up in chapter eight. P.S. I SUCK AT SUMMARIES. Anyone got a good one for this fic? I'll be damned if I think of something. But really, no pressure. THANK YOU FOR JUST READING MY RAMBLES. 3

* * *

She was in love with Jacob.

For a moment there was nothing but the landscape blurring by, the cool draft seeping through steel and the calm mutterings of those traveling.

Out of the corner of her eye, a pale hand rested easily on the table, long shadows slipping over the turn of tendons contracting.

She was.

She wondered how he would react if she touched him again. If she reached out, skimmed her fingers over his pointed knuckles.

Stomach turning, she looked away.

They'd spent the first hour of the trip in physical silence, her thoughts only filling the gap between them. Bella locked her eyes back to the thick green trees and lush foliage, admiring the tips of hazy mountains in the distance.

She faltered, readjusted the folded hands in her lap.

"We're almost to Port Angeles," he remarked quietly. She felt the velvet of his voice as it stroked her cheek.

She didn't trust her voice to respond: instead she nodded stiffly.

Of course she was in love with Jacob.

She felt Edward's eyes boring into her, his unmitigated attention breaking her down, piece by piece. The fragile front she was struggling to keep up crumbled further with each second, tearing down her defenses.

She let out a puff of air and dropped her gaze to the table before her, sinking further into the coat that Edward had provided her. The train shook on uneven tracks; her shoulder bumped into his rhythmically. She heard him suck in breath.

She stopped breathing and bowed her head, letting her hair curtain between them like a flimsy barrier.

_I don't know what I feel_, she reminded herself, but she knew how she felt about Jacob. She knew how Jacob felt about her. There was nothing else that should matter, that did matter, once upon a time before whatever was beside her—the monster, savior, the _man_—forced himself into her life.

Before she'd willing opened the door and let him in. Before she kissed him.

She shuddered at the memory and wrapped her arms around herself, as if to keep her insides together. It had been there, all the while, from the very first moment no matter how disgusted or terrified she felt. There was something eerily captivating about the creature next to her. Something she couldn't shake.

Yet she didn't feel enchanted, and maybe that was the witchcraft—only changed, as if something monumental in her had shifted between that one hesitant touch in her room and now.

"Bella." His voice shocked her. Her lungs screamed as he shifted noiselessly, arm sliding into her peripheral, fingers pushing back her hair.

She swallowed past a dry throat, a current rushing through her as he tucked strands carefully behind her ear.

"Breathe."

She gasped in air, and found the black depths of his soul, her mind bare and vulnerable to his scrutiny. At first she didn't mind that he could read her thoughts and openly shared them with him; it was easier than trying to fumble for the right words. But with each new thought she felt herself falling deeper; she looked at his lips and remembered what they felt like.

Her cheeks pooled with color and he leaned closer, his expression going slack with hunger. What kind, she could now only guess.

She was under no magic, but for some indefinable reason he was—with her.

"I'm confused," she admitted.

"I'm not."

The surety in his words both calmed and unnerved her.

"How do you—how do you feel?"

He smirked, but the tension didn't dissipate. She clutched tighter at herself, confessions he already must know bursting forth.

"I'm worried. I'm afraid. Jacob is…" Guilt choked her for a moment—Edward's expression went blank. "He's everything to me, and I don't know where he is or if he's still alive. He doesn't know where..." _I am. With you. And I kissed you. I'm supposed to hate you. I shouldn't have kissed you. But I wanted to and that's a whole other..._ "Jacob… he deserves better." _And you. I'm dragging you along with me, and if Jacob knew whom I was with, what I did… I don't know what he'd do. I'm selfish. I'm so selfish and I'm so confused._

"You're not the selfish one, Bella," he simply replied. "Trust me."

She choked on a laugh and squeezed her eyes shut, because she trusted him more than she should—she shouldn't trust him at all.

_I shouldn't have asked you to come. They'll kill you just for being what you are._

"It was my choice, Bella," he sighed, and all the nerves in her body hummed and collided as he touched her, fingers feathering down her jaw. "I'm having trouble letting you go…" He muttered the pained words as if to himself, dragging each syllable out as if they were something to savor. "You want to know how I feel? I just feel _you_. I never want to stop."

She was gasping little breaths, all of her emotions bubbling beneath the surface. All of her confusion increased double fold, but somehow it seemed less important than it did only a few mere seconds ago, taking a backseat to the rush of adrenaline sending her careening in her still body, the fear and curiosity and desire she felt for him rendering her immobile.

Her face heated; his thumb skimmed over the blood-filled flesh with a gentle growl. "I love making you blush…" His teeth snapped audibly and she flinched before settling back against his touch, her heart racing. "So fragile…" He whispered the observation and leaned in, resting his head against hers, nose brushing her ear, his lips contouring to the skin just above her neck.

There was something dark and violent underneath his gentleness. She felt relieved to feel a storm of fear and then felt sick.

"You shouldn't trust me, but I want you to. I should have stayed away, but now it's too late."

"Too late?" Her voice shook.

"I haven't felt anything but rage and guilt in years." His cool breath made her shiver. "I haven't felt anything like you in my entire existence."

"And what is it _exactly_ that you feel?"

He was silent, and all she could do was plead with him to answer with her thoughts. His lips marked her skin, just once, and blindly her hand shot out, her fingers wrapping around his shirt for leverage.

"Human."

* * *

It was dusk by the time they neared Forks.

The grey clouds covered every square inch of the sky and they'd passed miles of forest and patches of stumped trees on the way, layers of white sprawling snow that slowly thinned as they reached further towards the shore.

Bella rested her head against the steel of the rumbling car, clenching her teeth together to prevent shuddering.

There was no train after Port Angeles; Forks was only a small blip on the map, a dreary place populated by lumberjacks and the little family they had. Bella had only found peace in her entire existence at La Push, blending among the Quileutes under Jacob's arm.

Without Jacob, there was nothing to return to.

She felt a dam of tears sting behind her eyes and turned into her shoulder, knowing it was useless to hide. She wished Edward hadn't insisted on buying an automobile to drive the latter miles, saying again that it was too cold to run; she wished she didn't have the time to stare out the window and worry and think.

"We'll get a room," he announced suddenly, and Bella whipped her head around to stare at his sudden speech; he'd hardly said more than three words the entire ride.

She had the deepest suspicion he spent the entire time listening to her roaming thoughts.

He did not look away from the winding road, pushing the engine to its highest limit. She was too stressed to care that they were going so fast. She wanted to get there as soon as possible.

"Will you be recognized?"

"It's a small town," she answered in a throaty, unused voice.

"Then in what way would you like to say my relation is to you?" His tone was even and measured, devoid of all emotion, but his eyes flickered towards her and they were tight and pained.

"We're… good friends," she decided, and felt her throat constrict at the words.

He smiled humorlessly, but it was still beautiful and she couldn't look away. "All right. We met in Seattle and I'm accompanying you as a good friend during your visit back home."

She pressed her lips together, wondering why the exchange unnerved her so completely as they entered the town limits and all too soon the few stores and houses greeted them.

She felt a flood of memories retch forward, many she pushed back, her gaze automatically finding the church steeple down the road and the small dilapidated home, now rotting, beside it.

She blinked and one tear fell; hastily she wiped it away as they pulled beside the road to the town's lone motel.

Edward was there before she could even endeavor to compose herself and struggle to open the door, his alabaster hand extended for her. He was stone-still, inhuman, his glassy black eyes harder than she'd ever seen them.

She flushed, intimidated, and then flushed harder, remembering his comment from the train. Then she slipped her hand into his, feet still stumbling to the ground. There was some warmth in his gaze when she chanced a look back up, his fingers curling tighter around hers.

"Miss Bella," he said politely, but the sound of his voice was teasing and intimate.

"Mister Edward," she retorted, and properly took his elbow.

His teeth flashed and he shut the door for her, escorting them both to the hotel, but she hardly saw the building, stricken on his genuine grin.

He stopped suddenly, his expression going slack.

"Isabella?"

The icy air froze her lungs as she whipped around towards the familiar voice, her face contorting in despair. "Uncle Charlie."

His eyes were wet underneath the wide rim of his police chief hat, and in the next moment she was in his warm embrace, her nose buried in the smell of tobacco and cedar. "Bella. Oh, Bella," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Where were you?"

"It's okay, Charlie," she said, his grief and guilt and love injecting some strength into her frame. "It's over now and I'm back and I'm fine. It's not your fault. Dad took me to Seattle."

"It is my fault, sweetheart." He pulled back to look at her, hands gripping her arms, a bittersweet smile on his face. "I knew you were running around with that kid, and I should have known Will would react like he did… and the attack, Bella. If only I'd been there to…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Charlie," she pleaded, her heart clenching. "There wasn't anything you could have done. It was my fault." She felt the weight on her shoulders, pushing her down and strangling her, and she didn't want that burden for Charlie.

"I've been looking everywhere, talking to everyone I know. Your father and you just disappeared."

"That's what he wanted," she assuaged him.

"I should have looked harder. I'm so sorry, Bella."

He crushed her against him again and she relented to his guilt, bringing her arms around his shoulders, holding back tears that spilled anyway. "It's okay," she whispered. "Please don't blame yourself."

She'd lied before—there was more in Forks for her than just Jacob.

"Is Jacob here?" She held her breath, fingers curling into his jacket; she felt as if even her heart paused.

Charlie pulled away, discreetly wiping under his tearful eyes, hand dropping casually to his gun holster, the sight both comforting and familiar. "I'm sorry, Bella. He left. He's gone, and Seth and Leah are gone too. No one knows where to. I'd thought he chased after you, but Billy seemed so… strange, even when he agreed with me. Something's not right." He shook his head, his jaw tensing. "He's keeping things from me. The whole damn tribe is and I know it's about that night and the attack."

A sob choked her, grief welling inside. She grabbed at her heart and felt it breaking. "I have to see Billy."

He nodded and seemed overcome by the sight of her. "You're back, Bella. I swear I won't let anyone hurt you again. How did you-?" He paused and seemed for the first time to notice Edward, who was hovering only a yard away, watching the exchange with practiced indifference. "Who's this?"

She stuttered for a moment, swallowing past the building lump in her throat, but Edward swiftly glided forward, touching her arm minutely before smiling courteously. "My name is Edward Cullen. I assume your Bella's uncle Charlie Swan."

"Yeah," he confirmed and the hand on his gun didn't seem so casual anymore. "What are you doing with her?"

"Charlie-" she started, her brows furrowing in disapproval.

"It's okay, Bella," Edward cut in smoothly. "Your uncle cares about you and travelling alone with a man has its implications."

Her eyes widened, her mouth formed a small 'o', and her cheeks blushed fiercely. "That's _not_-"

"I have no ill or inappropriate intentions towards your niece, Chief Swan," he began, and Bella felt herself sinking into the ground, dying from embarrassment with each word. She almost scoffed at his statement. "We became fast friends in Seattle. I volunteered to escort her back home after she left her father. I thought it wiser if she had some sort of companion then go it alone."

Charlie seemed skeptical, even when Bella nodded in contempt. "He's helped me a great deal," she confirmed, surprised that she meant every word.

"Well, then." He rocked back and forth on his worn boots, glaring at Edward's stoic frightening stare, and unflinchingly, to his credit. "I guess you're both staying with me."

"Oh, Charlie, it's okay-"

"No, Bella," Edward interrupted, and his gaze stilled her. "It would be rude. He's your uncle, and he's spent the last month combing the state for you."

She nodded dumbly, unable to look away.

"Well that's that, then," Charlie concluded.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

Courtesy of Kalianah:

**Brand Spanking New Summary:** Set in the 1930s. Fueled by guilt and self-hatred, Edward leaves Carlisle and Esme to hunt the darkest creatures of humanity: murderers, rapists, thieves, criminals. But what happens when one of their victims calls to him on a whole other level?

THANK YOU BB.

**Author's Notes:** MORE PLOT GUYS!! This is... nearly unbeta-ed by me, but OH WELL. Hope you guys enjoy despite a few grammatical errors. Also, you know what wrote this chapter? "Closer" by Kings of Leon. Lyrics at the end of the chapter, because I think they fit. :)

* * *

"The kitchen's through there, and the bathroom's upstairs."

He felt thirst like a plague, twisting and contorting his insides, ripping him apart.

His throat burned. Every inch of his body was aflame with her scent, reduced to a silent desperation that gnawed relentlessly at his insides.

He watched hungrily, hypnotized by her slowing heartbeat, her beautiful sweet brown eyes filling with tears as they roamed and rememorized every surface of her uncle's home.

The monster within him roared, but the man abated the demon. He felt his dead heart beat at the wave of peace that seemed to overcome her, and he needed to touch her, to feel that serenity. She turned slightly towards him, her cheeks filled with capillaries of red blood that sang for him. He needed to taste that warm blush, but instead he slipped the suitcase from her hands and placed it on the floor carefully, fingers brushing over hers, stealing her heat.

She found his eyes and fell into them, her thoughts racing and chaotic, and he tilted his head towards her and she shivered when he palmed her delicate shoulder and slid the touch down to her lower back.

Her lashes fell to her cheeks slowly, and then fluttered half open.

She was _breathtaking_.

"There are only two rooms. Bella, you'll take the guest room and Edward can sleep on the couch," her uncle continued derisively, and he almost chuckled at Charlie's worried and hateful thoughts, the twenty different ways he'd already thought of killing Edward.

Bella spun her head around, mouth opening in protest, granting him full view of the long column of her neck. It took all of his will not to gather her in his arms and carefully lick that line of pulse, feel her melt into him like he knew she would, and taste the blood pumping rhythmically beneath her skin.

"Charlie, he's a gue-"

"Thank you, Chief Swan," he said smoothly, tearing himself from the fantasy.

He needed to feed. Soon. He had put it off for far too long, obsessively stewing in his own self-pity and remorse, stalking her movements and thoughts in the prison that used to be her home, caring for her in his own, taking vigil over her slumber.

It'd been nearly a week.

She let out a frustrated exhale and sent a glare at her uncle, but the man's beady eyes were narrowed at him, his thoughts murderous. iHow dare he look at her like she's a piece of meat? I swear to God one more second of this and-/i

"Anything to make Bella more comfortable," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting up crookedly when her attention turned back to him.

Her lips parted in a puff of air and he breathed in the warmth, tasting her aroma on the back of his tongue.

_Delicious_.

It'd been much too long to be around her without a fresh meal, without any type of nourishment besides her soft lips against his.

The memory sent him _reeling_.

Internally shaken, Edward took a step back, finally moving his eyes to Charlie. "Excuse me," he said curtly. "I'm sure you two would like to catch up."

He turned to go, to escape before he did something unchangeable, unforgivable, but her hand caught his wrist, her thoughts immediately turning from the intensity of his stare to his intentions.

_Please don't kill anyone. I could_ know _them_, _Edward._

"Speak to your uncle, Bella. Go see Billy," he ordered evenly, ignoring her words and the flash of overwhelming thirst and desire coursing through him at her thoughts, her touch. "I'll be here when you get back."

Carefully he peeled her fingers from him, focusing on the instant bleach that drained her flushed cheeks, the fear that filled her at his lack of response.

He couldn't exit the house fast enough, walking too quickly through the door and sucking in clean wintry air like a dying man, disappearing into the line of forest.

The snow hardly moved underneath his feet; the cold hardly touched him.

He ran, his breath inhaling on hisses, exhaling on growls—his entire being felt sucked of life with every step he took away from her. He was drained; he was burning. Her thoughts, so gentle and soft and heartbreaking were gone from his mind, and there was nothing but silence.

Stillness and silence.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn't moving anymore, that his body had folded down, his knees dropped deep into packed snow.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried out.

Edward closed his eyes.

_Bella_.

Her name was a reprieve, a torture. She was simply everything and he was nothing.

Robotically, he let his head fall into his hands. Nothing but a disgusting monster ghosting her steps, desperate for a hint, a touch, an anything at all to savor and cherish from her mind, body and soul.

From the very beginning, her life had been in his control, this delicate little thing he cradled with careful hands, but now he understood better.

He was at her mercy.

Totally and completely her willing slave.

He fell to his hands, chest heaving with forced breaths. The hunger rattled him, consumed him—he snarled and fought it, eyes squeezing shut.

He saw Bella, white and terrified. _Please don't kill anyone. I could _know _them, Edward._

He let out a booming sardonic laugh that echoed and the wind shifted, bringing something alive and warm to his senses.

Even if he wanted to disobey her, there was no way he could resist the promise of blood after so long…

His neck snapped up inhumanly fast; his teeth bared. A mouthful of venom overflowed onto his palette, and his vicious hiss pushed the clear thick poison onto the snow beneath him in drips and spats.

The monster in him ruled; the man fell back. The pathetic defeated stance he'd occupied became a crouch; he lifted himself onto his feet, fingers skimming the ground.

He saw the baby fawns and their mother, even at the substantial range, brown and black patches of fur split by branches and leaves. He ran around them, snapping the mother's neck before she could blink; the fawns darted in opposite directions, hormones bursting into their small delectable bodies, their blank eyes wide.

He was too fast, one-handedly crushing the younger one's spine just by catching it, and sinking his teeth into the other's neck as she kicked and fought wildly. Her blood hit his tongue and his eyes shot open at the heady taste, the slightly watery tang of deer blood.

He sucked harder, draining every last drop as the body quivered and died, and then bled the other, throwing it carelessly to the side when there was nothing left either creature could offer him.

He stood, wiping the blood from his face and fell to his knees over the mother, already coated with a fine layer of falling snow.

Her black eyes were glossy and dead, like his—just as Bella saw them. He tore into her throat and didn't stop until after he'd licked the wound clean, his tongue languishing over every drop.

* * *

"_I'm in love with Jacob."_

The moon was out now; twilight had come and gone. He'd slaughtered a small herd of elk under the materializing stars, their cries silenced by his crushing teeth, their life snuffed out and taken by him.

"_I'm in love with your son, Billy."_

He kept his face blank. He kept his anguish bottled up and let it transform into boiling anger, into possessiveness and darkness. He let it because it was easier then facing the truth of her frantic pleading.

He'd arrived just in time for this.

The sand was coarse beneath his fingertips, more beads than powder. The sound of the rolling waves soothed the beast inside of him, but only to the point of inaction.

He listened.

"_I know you know what happened that night. Billy, please. Billy, where did he go?"_

There was silence. The old man's thoughts were weak, as if the volume were turned down. Edward concentrated, trying to find the string of his unfamiliar mind, to pin it down.

He was thinking about his son. About pride and death and glory. About the poor crying girl in front of him, so innocent and naïve, so resistant of her true place away from Jacob and the tribe, away from people and creatures she had no right to associate with.

Edward's upper lip curled back.

"_He's hunting the rest of them. Leah and Seth followed him, as they should have. That's all I know and that's all I care to tell you."_

His voice was strong and sure, devoid of the worry he felt for his boy. He was telling the truth.

Bella felt like her heart was breaking all over again. Edward reached for his cheek to feel the nonexistent tears that were cascading down her face. _"I wish—I wish you could know what we have. I know you never approved. I know because he never…"_ She swallowed thickly. _"…imprinted I wasn't welcome. But I love him. I love him and I need to find him, with or without your help."_

His beliefs were carved in stone, his sympathy stilted and twisted by them. _"He's doing what he was born to do. He's avenging the tribe's loss."_

"_Please…"_ she begged.

"_I think it's time for you to go."_

Edward heard her sobs; he ached with her pain.

Her fragile feet stumbled from the house, her eyes blinded by tears.

He was in love with her.

Wretchedly, irrevocably. His whole being hummed in tune to hers. He was drunk with her even from the cursed distance that separated them, even as she cried over the dog that held her heart.

He moved.

Her face was stained with snot and tears; she'd hardly made it down the walkway of the house—old and paint-chipped, dark and desolate. Her cheeks shone with evidence of sorrow in the silvery light, and her little cries seemed to grab hold of him and tug.

One hand reached to cover her mouth, to stifle her agony, and her other arm hugged her waist tight.

He gathered her in his arms, tightening his hold when she stiffened in surprise and began to lurch away.

She was so warm and a moment later her mind poured into his with relief and she leaned against him—so small and perfectly aligned with his chilled rigid frame. "Edward…" she rasped out, and he closed his eyes as she scratched his neck in desperation, as she tried to wrap her arms around him and find comfort.

Her lips pressed against his dead pulse, her flowing tears wetting his skin.

He shuddered, the action so human it repulsed him, and grabbed fistfuls of the dress hanging from her frame.

"I don't want to be here anymore," she gasped out, her thoughts despaired, her hope crushed.

Words scorched in his throat—confessions and whispers of solace, but he held them back, his arm pulling her tighter against him and restricting her wispy breath.

She contoured to him, plush and pliant and trusting.

He snaked his hand into the mess of her hair and cradled her head, resting his lips at her cheek. And he breathed in, poison rushing into his mouth, taunting and tempting him.

She nestled closer, body arching into him and his control wavered. "Edward," she choked, pleading, upset.

He lifted her feet from the ground and ran. He ran until her sobs quieted and her tears stopped, her legs tangled around his. He ran until she lifted her head from his shoulder and her mouth touched his ear, her fingers weaving into his hair. He ran until her thoughts told him to stop and he did.

Her small feet reached for the ground and her body shivered in the whipping unforgiving wind.

She looked up to him, her pupils wide and her lips white with cold.

He wanted to warm her.

She looked around the small, snow-covered meadow and her knees gave out, her mind blank.

He grabbed her arms and fell to his knees with her, pulling her into his lap.

"Edward," her teeth clashed and he shushed her, rubbing her arms. She turned into his embrace and the hush of the forest filled his mind.

_He might not be alive._

Even her thoughts were devoid of emotion, shocked of pain and anguish.

_They killed the rest of the pack. They could have killed him too. He could be ripped to pieces… like Sam and Quil and Embry. He could be… gone._

"You don't know that," he murmured to her, hating himself for her, hating himself that he wished it were true. That he wished Jacob was dead and she could be his, that it could be so easy.

_He could be gone._

Her heart barricaded itself, pushed out her faith and hope, pushed out the vitality of her wishes.

She grieved, because the fear told her so, because if she grieved now it would be easier if he were really truly gone from this world.

"That doesn't mean it is."

The heels of her hands pushed away from him; her head lolled back. Her exhales were clouded and slow; her fingers reached to touch the planes and ridges of his features.

"Your eyes…" Her voice cracked, her throat scratched by cries and heaves and heartache. Awe filled her, the chestnut irises gazing up at him like those of a doe, moments from her death. "They're… _gold_."

He took her hand, kneading the bluing pads of his fingers to generate warmth, unable to look away from her wonder. "Yes."

"How…?"

"I need to get you home before you freeze, Bella," he said.

Her body folded, her hands escaped to hold his jaw, her lips stopping inches from his. He looked down to them, those pillows of supple flesh. Her fingertips clutched tighter at him, her misted breath kissing his ready mouth.

Her thoughts were chaotic and unreadable, her desires inscrutable. She was on some precipice, numb with cold and the hell she'd found in answers and more questions.

Nothing had ever scared him more, had ever brought forth the man in him more than the half-dead look in her alluring eyes.

He crushed her to him slowly, savoring the feel of her cooling body heat and the sound of her rapid heartbeat. She was almost as cold as he was, no longer warming his dead corpse.

But her lips were hungry, and they pushed against his with a fever that erupted in his chest, a new wave of her tears slickening his face.

She was gone; her thoughts were dulling into his name, over and over again like a mantra that drove all else out. She wrapped herself around him, desperately, needy, tearing ineffectually at his skin, his hair, fisting his collar and tearing the cloth.

She opened her mouth; her hot tongue darted out and a groan left him, her teeth biting at his bottom lip, demanding entrance.

He left bruises with his hands, gripping her with unnatural strength. His mouth watered with poison; the monster inside snarled for her sweet death.

_Edward. Make it go away. Make it go away._

He fell back at her violent insistence, her body spreading over his, waves of her silky hair falling around their kiss.

She whimpered as he responded, his hands cupping her head, arching his neck up.

Her tears fell into the apex of his eyes, their salt bitter. He held her still, her gentle shuddering sobs muffled as he tasted her lips, pushed for entrance and ran his tongue against the edges of her teeth.

He felt the urge to take her, to have her in every obscene way possible, to render her powerless in his grasp.

Her tongue felt for his and he growled, yanking her back, her eyes full of terror and desire and a broken soul.

Her fingers grabbed for him, welcoming the danger, and he pushed her away, placing yards between them in the blink of an eye.

"_No_." His rejection echoed against the trees.

A sound left her, a jarring sob that took her breath. "I'm sorry," she trembled, gripping handfuls of snow.

He watched from behind the line of trees, sucking in clear air, his inhuman snarls loud and piercing.

Her mind muted; her cries evened and she stood, eyes scanning for him helplessly. "Edward?" she breathed, and he struggled to calm the beast inside of him, to stifle the animal.

He stepped forward, into the light, hunched over defensively.

The dusty snow packed as she dragged herself to him foolishly, her feet on uneven ground, her senses useless in her tired state. He shot forward and scooped her up before she could collapse, her surprise hardly registering, her grip only tightening, her body only curling around his as he ran.

She was already asleep by the time he returned to La Push and the waiting car, bundled in his arms.

* * *

She dreamt of the attack.

Her memories were vivid, rolling beneath her eyelids. Edward watched. He hovered in the shadows of her room, monitoring Charlie's heavy snores and watched her nightmare play out, as it had countless times before.

It was dark in her dreams. The night was cool, she remembered. She running, running to Jacob. Her feet were caked with mud, her shoes worn through. La Push was a further trip then she suspected, and the muscles in her legs burned.

Her father had found out; he'd found out about their hidden love from a vengeful, disapproving elder—Harry Clearwater—and reacted violently, shutting her up in her room, cursing her for her sins and condemning her attachment to savages. Frightened, terrified to lose Jacob forever, she'd left through the window and ran.

She kept running, until it happened.

Until the entourage fell down upon her, their pale faces and red eyes paralyzing her. She remembered spilled blood and pain. They'd played with her before deciding to feast, and that's when it happened.

When the wolves came, and she'd watched them die, one by one, trying to protect her.

As Jacob tried to protect her.

Edward watched, lids falling as her hot breath expelled from her lungs with muttered words—his name, over and over again, as if he had been there, as if he could have saved her as her saviors fell.

She remembered the sickly sweet scent of the vampires and their gleaming teeth, their screams as the battle raged on before her, as they were torn apart, piece by piece.

As the smaller one snapped and ripped Sam's head off his body in shreds and ran, as she escaped, Leah and Seth at her heels.

The dream turned, morphed into fiction, Jacob's dark skin sliding against hers, his smiling mouth filled with blood, his eyes rolled back, white and dead.

Bella twisted, his name becoming a frenzied choked cry.

Edward stepped closer, the scant light from the window bathing his features.

He knew the smaller one from her nightmares, that delicate pretty face and cruel smile. Even through the blur of human memory, he'd known instantly, unmistakably.

Jane.

* * *

"Closer" by Kings of Leon

Stranded in this spooky town

Stoplights are swaying and the phone lines are down

This floor is crackling cold

She took my heart, I think she took my soul

With the moon I run

Far from the carnage of the fiery sun

Driven by the strangled vein

Showing no mercy, I do it again

Open up your eye

You keep on crying, baby

I'll bleed you dry

The skies are blinking at me

I see a storm bubbling up from the sea

And it's coming closer

And it's coming closer

You, shimmy shook my bone

Leaving me stranded all in love on my own

What do you think of me?

Where am I now? Baby, where do I sleep?

Feel so good but I'm old,

2,000 years of chasing taking its toll

And it's coming closer

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** It's been a long while guys, and I am so sorry. I don't even have a lot to show for it. Writing this fic has become harder for me for one reason or another and I'm trying to work through it. I think I've lost the vision in the hectic turn RL has taken, but I hope with some adjustment I'll find it again.  
I've felt bad leaving this unupdated and instead of letting you guys wait longer, I'll post what I have. It may not be the full chapter I intended, but it's about half and it's a whole scene. :)

**More Author's Note:** I just want to address some the reviews concerning Jacob and Bella's feelings for him. I'm not going to lie; I love Jacob, I do. I am totally aware that a lot of people in the fandom do not, especially some fellow Edward/Bella shippers. But I think Jacob is a huge part of Bella and I just knew he couldn't have _not_ been in this story. And as for Bella's feelings for him and how fixated she's been on him: I just want to explain.

It hasn't been long, maybe a little over a month since the attack. And Bella is or was, or truly believes she is in love with him. The fact of the matter is, Jacob has been the only thing Bella has had, for herself, her entire life, and she's not just going to forget about him, even though she's drawn and attracted to Edward (at this point). Come on, guys. You can't wake up one day and stop loving somebody. It's unrealistic. And you can't just give up on someone you care about. It's cruel, and Bella's not cruel. Even if she wasn't or didn't think herself to be in love with Jacob, she'd still try to find him.

Every story has its conflicts, both internal and external, and this is the conflict here. How even though you love and care and depend on someone so deeply you feel empty without that person, it's possible to cope with such pain, that it's possible to be selfless even when it's too much to bear. And it's possible to find solace and comfort and love in unexpected places. That it's possible to find something extraordinary and be torn between things like loyalty and friendship and love and trust. Bella has a choice to make, and I'm not going to make it easy. Sorry, but I'm not. It's not an easy choice and I'm not going to pretend it is. I hope you guys understand. :)

* * *

There was no sun to coax her awake.

Her eyelids simply opened, released her from her night terrors, her memories, her dreams. And she was heart-wrenchingly lucid, staring at the stormy pale skies from beneath mounds of covers.

She shut her eyes against the instant tears, her first thoughts plain and forever altering in their austerity.

_Jacob's gone. He could be dead._

Seizing herself, she raised, absentmindedly feeling for her slippers, because it was expected of her. The coolness of the house rose goosebumps on her skin but she didn't mind.

She thought it fitting.

The old stairs creaked as she tiptoed down and hugged one of Charlie's thick robes to her, petite in his wide frame, the blue cloth sliding along the floor.

Her eyes swept across the silent living room and rested on Edward's still lying form, his lashes against his cheeks in a mime of sleep, his head tilted to the side and unnaturally still.

The dam of her thoughts burst forth, last night playing unbidden for her mind's eye.

His arms, his strength, his lips grounding her, awakening whatever was left inside with a fury.

His lids lifted, and those golden orbs pierced her, beckoned her closer, her footfalls soft against the hardwood floors.

"Did you sleep well?" he muttered, and she lied.

"Yes."

Her heart entered her throat as he shifted, reached for her, pulling her down without permission into his cold embrace. And she welcomed it, relenting to the asking question in his eyes and his large palms against her waist.

She laid herself down and nestled close, burying her face into the slope of his shoulder.

"You had nightmares," he whispered, and her body arched exquisitely, naturally as he pressed her tight to him in the small space. His marble lips touched her forehead and lingered. She tried to breathe and clutched at the thin fabric of his unchanged shirt, scratchy against her cheek. "I wanted to hold you."

And her mind answered without deliberation, without her consent, without realizing the implications.

_Hold me whenever you want. Please, I want you to._

Her eyes misted and guilt filled her, chastising her.

All the lines she had construed were getting blurry and were fading away. She closed her eyelids and breathed him in, taking comfort in him even when she should turn away and never look back.

"Bella." His voice was tight, controlled and beautiful. "I'll do whatever you ask of me."

Her jaw clenched so firmly she could see stars, and a few errant tears escaped as she squeezed her lids against her cheeks. Her chest pushed into his with each laborious exhale and ungracefully she twined her leg over his to somehow get closer, his hand smoothly detouring over her side, to the crook of her knee and back again, over and over.

She shivered.

_I need you. It's wrong, but I need you._

Softly, he kissed both sides of her temples, the innocent gestures somehow sensual as the friction of his touch increased.

_I want you,_ her mind professed. _I want you to comfort me._

He was silent and the guilt ate her alive, the truth of her confessions twisting her up.

And then he was pulling her neck back and sliding a closed mouth to her jaw and feathering his lips over the sensitive curve of her ear.

"You're so warm… and soft," he murmured, and she heard the thin line of his control wavering in his tone. "Bella," he moaned. "I want you. In so many terrible, unforgivable ways."

"Please," and her voice cracked.

She thought she felt herself dying when his lips slipped to her throat, and a soft growl vibrated against her chest. He shook as he kissed her pulse and she wrapped her arms around his neck, ushering in the danger with a soft whimper.

He pulled back stiffly, his gold eyes narrowed and pained, the purple circles beneath his eyes deepened with thirst. She touched them, and then with her lips, feeling a surge of concern and affection that seemed to bathe her in warmth.

His lips were parted and she took that as an invitation, licking carefully between them, hitting his closed teeth.

"Slow," he hissed through them, and her heart thudded frantically against him as she gently sucked and soothed and kissed, each action softening him to her.

And then he was kissing her back with the utmost care, pressing back into her, chasing each touch. His palm cupped her cheek and there was no way to describe what he was doing to her.

And then all too soon she sighed into him and he stiffened and pulled away, his chest still.

"Edward," she breathed in awe, and rested into his arms.

He was quiet and rigid and she waited until his fingers wove into her hair and his head fell back into the cushions.

"Why are your eyes different?" she wondered aloud, because it was easier to ignore the torment bubbling up again, the remorse and choking shame.

"Animal blood," he whispered in response, and the pieces fell into place in her mind, one by one.

Her chest filled with ardor, and she held him tighter in gratefulness, the guilt scratching at her for a different reason, for him and everything he was sacrificing, everything she was unfairly asking. "Thank you."

-

It pained him to know that she was _grateful_.

She was a slip, a breakable little thing warming him even as he chilled her. He could scoff at the analogy, at the truth there—she made him _feel_, and she clung to him because he leeched her of the same.

But she still clung to him. She still nestled herself into his arms and accepted his cold embrace.

She still whispered to him under the cloak of thoughts and granted him permission to indulge himself.

And what else could he ask of her? What else could he imagine to glean from her shattered lost soul, her confused and beautiful heart that beat so close to his chest?  
_He_ was grateful.

"Edward?" she spoke his name, throat clogged with drowsiness.

"Yes, Bella?" He prompted evenly, looking out into space, already knowing her question.

"Tell me about your family," she requested softly. "You mentioned—didn't you mention they lived close to here?"

"I did," he confirmed.

She was silent, waiting, and doubt crept into her bones just as swiftly as hesitation crawled through his. "You don't have to," she whispered in a small voice.

She sighed, letting out a rush of air as he reached to bury a hand deep into her tresses, lightly scratching her scalp. He inhaled her scent and let it rattle his composure, pressing his lips to the messy head of hair within his reach.

He could almost feel the pleasure of her instant thoughts, their frayed edges rough with disgust for herself, and guilt. "Tell me about your nightmare." His mouth brushed the line of her forehead. "I'll tell you about my family."

Her mind instantly protested.

"Please," he whispered.

"Why do you want to know about that?" she stalled, and he smiled grimly.

"Because it's not just a nightmare, Bella, and you've had it before."

"It's about—it's about what happened," she offered vaguely, caught in his trap. "Can you—you can see my dreams?" He felt her stirring of discomfort as she stiffened infinitesimally, and he heard the pain in her tone, her stifled memories awakening.

"Sometimes, fleetingly. When they're vivid and sometimes when you're close to waking," he explained curtly.

There was silence, only her mind turning. "How much do you know?" she whispered.

"Enough," he murmured back, pulling her closer. Her thoughts prodded him, her mind reaching for his. "I know you were running from home. I know vampires attacked you and I know the wolves saved you. I know some of them were killed, and I know you blame yourself."

Her eyes shut; her face turned into his neck, lungs taking him in. "Yes," she said brokenly. "Jacob—" Her voice caught. "He brought me back to La Push and ran for Seth and Leah. For the ones that got away."

"More than one?" He stopped her.

"Two. They were small and looked young. But the girl…" She shuddered violently in his arms and he felt stray tears escaping to wet his skin.

He looked into her mind, quietly watching the images chaotically rushing through her. He suppressed a growl when she thought of the right one. _Alec_.

"My dad must have known I was gone… no one was there to stop him." _From taking me away. And I haven't seen Jacob since._ He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw in agony for her, in possessiveness. To be torn from the ones you loved after being so brutally maimed, torn from your only true family after the other half had been slaughtered. "I tried to get away, that night you saved me… but I had no money… I had nothing. And then he locked me up." Her voice caught.

"Bella," her name tore from him; he felt everything that made him pour into those two hastily uttered syllables.

He thought about who lay so trustingly in his arms, so fragile and pliable. He thought about the dangers stalking her shadows and her blind foolish willingness to meet them. And he knew he'd follow her anyway; he knew he'd protect her for an eternity without a thought, without a doubt.

"Tell me about your family," and there was a pleading desperation in her voice. She didn't want to speak of hers anymore.

Even though he knew it was coming, he felt the instant burning of guilt. He felt the creeping cold sadness wash over him, poisonously coating every inch of his insides at her carefully hidden curiosity that teemed with a crashing force inside her mind. _His family_.

And she wanted to know everything.

So he told her, because she asked. He told her about Chicago and Carlisle. He told her about Esme and her bright loving smile.

With each word he felt her relaxing into him. He felt her trust deepening and her breathing leveling. He felt her amazement, her wonder. He felt her love and life coursing into him, welcoming and warming his dead soul.

Edward felt _her_, and it was all he ever wanted. She was the salvation he prayed for, and now could touch—but her goodness was his hell, as if only the devil had heard his pleas and took pleasure in his pain.

She was the heaven he didn't deserve.

The heaven he could never have.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER.**

I wanted to get that out of the way.

Sigh. I'm officially putting this fic on hiatus. :( Let me explain why.

This is totally and completely _definitely_ not because of lack of interest. This is because I have no time. Yes! I know, I know—you can totally argue the point that I update _An Unfortunate Look Into Bella's Lovesick Psyche_ like a writer on speed, and while that's true, it's also true that _Soif de Sang_ requires 10x as much effort and concentration.

And I just don't have it. While _AULIBLP_ (god, what an acronym) chapters are written with little thought usually within a few hours (lmao sad but true), this fic's chapters? WEEKS. Weeks of torturous long days of writing and rewriting and thinking and rethinking. Basically, this fic means something to me, and I don't want to half-ass it.

So… hiatus, until I have the time to labor and sweat blood and cry tears over it.

-Crystal


End file.
